But if there was nothing to be done in that direction, she had discovered another weak spot in Christophe, one more easy of access: his moral faith. In spite of his squabble with the Vogels, and in spite of the intoxication of his adolescence, Christophe had preserved an instinctive modesty, a need of purity, of which he was entirely unconscious. At first it struck Ada, attracted and charmed her, then made her impatient and irritable, and finally, being the woman she was, she detested it. She did not make a frontal attack. She would ask insidiously: "Do you love me?" "Of course!" "How much do you love me?" "As much as it is possible to love." "That is not much ... after all!... What would you do for me?" "Whatever you like." "Would you do something dishonest." "That would be a queer way of loving." "That is not what I asked. Would you?" "It is not necessary." "But if I wished it?" "You would be wrong." "Perhaps.... Would you do it?" He tried to kiss her. But she thrust him away. "Would you do it? Yes or no?" "No, my dear." She turned her back on him and was furious. "You do not love me. You do not know what love is." "That is quite possible," he said good-humoredly. He knew that, like anybody else, he was capable in a moment of passion of committing some folly, perhaps something dishonest, and--who knows?--even more: but he would have thought shame of himself if he had boasted of it in cold blood, and certainly it would be dangerous to confess it to Ada. Some instinct warmed him that the beloved foe was lying in ambush, and taking stock of his smallest remark; he would not give her any weapon against him. She would return to the charge again, and ask him: "Do you love me because you love me, or because I love you?" "Because I love you." "Then if I did not love you, you would still love me?" "Yes." "And if I loved some one else you would still love me?" "Ah! I don't know about that.... I don't think so.... In any case you would be the last person to whom I should say so." "How would it be changed?" "Many things would be changed. Myself, perhaps. You, certainly." "And if I changed, what would it matter?" "All the difference in the world. I love you as you are. If you become another creature I can't promise to love you." "You do not love, you do not love! What is the use of all this quibbling? You love or you do not love. If you love me you ought to love me just as I am, whatever I do, always." "That would be to love you like an animal." "I want to be loved like that." "Then you have made a mistake," said he jokingly. "I am not the sort of man you want. I would like to be, but I cannot. And I will not." "You are very proud of your intelligence! You love your intelligence more than you do me." "But I love you, you wretch, more than you love yourself. The more beautiful and the more good you are, the more I love you." "You are a schoolmaster," she said with asperity.