“Do you know,” I resumed, “that we have been together now six months? The life we are leading together is not one to be laughed at. You are young, I also; if this kind of life should become distasteful to you, are you the woman to tell me of it? In truth, if it were so, I would confess it to you frankly. And why not? Is it a crime to love? If not, it is not a crime to love less or to cease to love at all. Would it be astonishing if at our age we should feel the need of change?” She stopped me. “At our age!” said she. “Are you addressing me? What comedy are you now playing, yourself?” Blood mounted to my face. I seized her hand. “Sit down here,” I said, “and listen to me.” “What is the use? It is not you who speak.” I felt ashamed of my own strategy and abandoned it. “Listen to me,” I repeated, “and come, I beg of you, sit down near me. If you wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have to say.” “I am listening, what have you to say to me?” “If some one should say to me: ‘You are a coward!’ I, who am twenty-two years of age and have fought on the field of honor, would throw the taunt back in the teeth of my accuser. Have I not within me the consciousness of what I am? It would be necessary for me to meet my accuser on the field, and play my life against his; why? In order to prove that I am not a coward; otherwise the world would believe it. That single word demands that reply every time it is spoken, and it matters not by whom.” “It is true; what is your meaning?” “Women do not fight; but as society is constituted there is no being, of whatever sex, who ought to submit to the indignity involved in an aspersion on all his or her past life, be that life regulated as by a pendulum. Reflect; who escapes that law? There are some, I admit; but what happens? If it is a man, dishonor; if it is a woman, what? Forgiveness? Every one who loves ought to give some evidence of life, some proof of existence. There is, then, for woman as well as for man, a time when an attack must be resented. If she is brave, she rises, announces that she is present and sits down again. A stroke of the sword is not for her. She must not only avenge herself, but she must forge her own arms. Someone suspects her; who? An outsider? She may hold him in contempt--her lover whom she loves? If so, it is her life that is in question, and she may not despise him.” “Her only recourse is silence.” “You are wrong; the lover who suspects her casts an aspersion on her entire life. I know it. Her plea is in her tears, her past life, her devotion and her patience. What will happen if she remains silent? Her lover will lose her by her own act and time will justify her. Is not that your thought?” “Perhaps; silence before all.” “Perhaps, you say? Assuredly I will lose you if you do not speak; my resolution is made: I am going away alone.” “But, Octave--” “But,” I cried, “time will justify you! Let us put an end to it; yes or no?” “Yes, I hope so.”