"Suzanne, I am your friend. Be my friend, simply, and let your imagination ..." "You're afraid," she said. He tried to jest: "Afraid! Goodness gracious me, of what?" "Afraid of the one little affectionate action which I ask of you, the action of a brother kissing his sister. That's what you shrink from, Philippe." "I shrink from it because it is wrong and wicked," he declared, firmly. "That is the only reason." "No, Philippe, there is another reason." "Which is that?" "You love me." "I! I love you?... I!" "Yes, you, Philippe, you love me. And I defy you to look me in the face, to look me straight in the eyes and deny it." And, without giving him time to recover, she continued, bending over him eagerly: "You were in love with me, before I fell in love with you. It was your love that created mine. Don't protest, you have no right to do so now, for you know.... And I, I knew it from the first day. Oh, believe me, a woman is never mistaken.... Your eyes, when they looked at me, had a new look in them ... there, the look of just now. You have never looked like that at any woman, Philippe; not even at Marthe, ... no ... not even at her.... You never loved her, her nor the others. I was the first. Love was a thing unknown to you and you do not understand it yet ... and you sit there in front of me, nonplussed and dumbfoundered, because the truth appears to you and because you love me, Philippe, because you love me, my dear Philippe...." She clung to him, in an upheaval of hope and certainty, and he seemed not to resist. "You were afraid, Philippe. That is why you made up your mind not to see me again.... That is why you spoke so harshly to me just now.... You were afraid, because you love me.... Do you understand now?... Oh, Philippe, I should not have acted with you as I have done, if you did not love me.... I should never have had the presumption!... But I knew.... I knew ... and you don't deny it, do you?... Oh, how I suffered! My jealousy of Marthe!... To-day again, when she kissed you.... And the thought of going away without as much as saying good-bye to you!... And the thought of that marriage!... What a torture!... But it's over now, is it not? I shall suffer no more ... because you love me." She spoke these last words with a sort of timorous hesitation and without taking her eyes from Philippe's face, as though expecting him to give an answer that would calm the sudden anguish with which she was torn. He was silent. His eyes were dull, his forehead creased with wrinkles. He seemed to be reflecting and did not appear to reck that Suzanne was there so close to him, her arms clinging to his arms. She whispered: "Philippe.... Philippe...." Had he heard? He remained impassive. Then, little by little, Suzanne released her embrace. Her hands fell to her sides. She gazed with infinite distress upon the man she loved and, suddenly, sank into a heap, weeping: "Oh, I am mad!... I am mad! Why did I speak?"