“Not right when I love you so much? Am I not your betrothed?” “It is not right,” she repeated. They looked at each other closely. The evening sky was fading. A blue mist quivered over the park, under the trees and across the lawns. It was the hour of mystery, when everything is saddened by the fear of death. Daylight still lingered, but a delicate, wasted daylight, languorous in its grace. And the path which disappeared into the wood became in turn violet and rose-color. In the young girl’s eyes he saw the reflection of the setting sun. All the melancholy of dying nature was held in this living mirror. Never had he felt so clearly the weakness of his loved one. Never had she felt the chaste desire to cling to his strength as she did now. And yet, as he drew her to him and bent to kiss her, she gently pushed him away and whispered for the third time, “Oh, no, it is not right.” This trembling chastity, which disguised her affection so little, filled him with a feeling of deep respect. “Alice,” he said again, “you must swear you will be my wife.” But she answered as she had answered before: “I cannot do it. It is my parents’ wish....” Astonished at being unable to get more out of the interview which he had so ardently desired, and which meant so much for their future, Marcel went on firmly, certain of her love and confident that he could convince her: “Alice, Alice, I am going away--perhaps for several years. But what are two or three years when one loves? If you love, it is forever. I want to take your promise away with me. It will be my safeguard and my strength. Alice, I love you more than my life. Or rather I should say that I cannot live without you--obstacles are nothing when you love. Swear that you will keep your heart for me, when I am gone, and this little hand that you have given me, which lies so icy-cold in mine.” She stood speechless and confused before him. Her life had passed without initiative. She did not know if she had any will. Even her love had taken possession of her imperceptibly and hurt her by its violence, for it seemed to her excessive and forbidden. With infinite compassion he looked at her, so pale and weak, his only thought to protect her against the attacks of fate. But as she still kept silence, he became insistent: “Alice, I love you. The day is ending, you must go home. This autumn air is cold. Will you let me go without a word, without a grain of hope?” It was the thrilling hour when all nature gathers herself together before mingling with the shadows, before sinking into death. The last rays of the setting sun still lit up Alice’s pure face and golden hair. And her white shawl made a light spot among the trees.