"I cannot say; I did not think so at first, and then, one fine day, you seemed beautiful to me. So far as you are concerned, it is involuntary, I know that perfectly well; but it was involuntary on my part, too, my feeling this fascination, so involuntary that I fought against it and tried to divert my mind from it. I rendered unto Satan what belongs to Satan, that is to say, my poor soul, and I brought here unto Cæsar only what belongs to Cæsar,--my respect and my silence. But for eight or ten days this accursed emotion has reappeared in my dreams. It vanishes as soon as I am with you. On my word of honor, Thérèse, when I see you, when you speak to me, I am calm, I no longer remember that I cried out for you in a moment of frenzy, which I cannot understand myself. When I speak of you, I say that you are not young, or that I don't like the color of your hair. I declare that you are my comrade, that is to say, my brother, and I feel when I say it that I am perfectly loyal. And then a few puffs of spring surprise the winter in my idiotic heart, and I fancy that it is you who blow them. And it is you, in truth, Thérèse, with your adoration of what you call real love! That sets me thinking, whatever kind of love one may have!" "I think that you are mistaken, I never speak of love." "No, I know it. You follow a rigid rule in that respect. You have read somewhere that even to speak of love was to give it or take it; but your silence is most eloquent, your reticence gives one the fever, and your excessive prudence has a diabolical fascination." "In that case, let us meet no more," said Thérèse. "Why not? what is it to you that I have had a few sleepless nights, since it depends solely upon you to make me as tranquil as I used to be." "What must I do to bring that about?" "What I told you: tell me that you belong to some one. I shall look upon that as final, and as I am very proud, I shall be cured as by a fairy's wand." "And suppose I tell you that I belong to no one, because I no longer care to love any one, will not that suffice?" "No; I shall be conceited enough to think that you may change your mind." Thérèse could not help laughing at the adroitness with which Laurent manœuvred. "Very well," said she, "be cured, and give me back a friendship of which I was proud, instead of a life for which I should have to blush. I love some one." "That is not enough, Thérèse: you must tell me that you belong to him." "Otherwise you would think that some one was yourself, eh? Well, so be it, I have a lover. Are you satisfied?" "Perfectly. As you see, I kiss your hand to thank you for your frankness. Come, be a good girl, tell me that it is Palmer." "I cannot do that: it would be false." "Then--I don't know what to think!" "It is no one whom you know; it is a person who is absent from Paris." "But who comes sometimes?" "Apparently, since you overheard an outpouring of sentiment."