Marianne started back and wished to flee, but Gösta held her fast, whispering:— “Stand still; they think it belongs to the tableau.” He felt how her body shook with shuddering, and how the fire of her kisses died out on her lips. “Do not be afraid,” he whispered; “lovely lips have a right to kiss.” They had to stand while the curtain went up and went down, and each time the hundreds of eyes saw them, hundreds of hands thundered out a stormy applause. For it was beautiful to see two fair young people represent love’s happiness. No one could think that those kisses were anything but stage delusion. No one guessed that the señora shook with embarrassment and the knight with uneasiness. No one could think that it did not all belong to the tableau. At last Marianne and Gösta stood behind the scenes. She pushed her hair back from her forehead. “I don’t understand myself,” she said. “Fie! for shame, Miss Marianne,” said he, grimacing, and stretched out his hands. “To kiss Gösta Berling; shame on you!” Marianne had to laugh. “Everyone knows that Gösta Berling is irresistible. My fault is no greater than others’.” And they agreed to put a good face on it, so that no one should suspect the truth. “Can I be sure that the truth will never come out, _Herr_ Gösta?” she asked, before they went out among the guests. “That you can. Gentlemen can hold their tongues. I promise you that.” She dropped her eyes. A strange smile curved her lips. “If the truth should come out, what would people think of me, Herr Gösta?” “They would not think anything. They would know that it meant nothing. They would think that we entered into our parts and were going on with the play.” Yet another question, with lowered lids and with the same forced smile,— “But you yourself? What do you think about it, Herr Gösta?” “I think that you are in love with me,” he jested. “Think no such thing,” she smiled, “for then I must run you through with my stiletto to show you that you are wrong.” “Women’s kisses are precious,” said Gösta. “Does it cost one’s life to be kissed by Marianne Sinclair?” A glance flashed on him from Marianne’s eyes, so sharp that it felt like a blow. “I could wish to see you dead, Gösta Berling! dead! dead!” These words revived the old longing in the poet’s blood. “Ah,” he said, “would that those words were more than words!—that they were arrows which came whistling from some dark ambush; that they were daggers or poison, and had the power to destroy this wretched body and set my soul free!” She was calm and smiling now. “Childishness!” she said, and took his arm to join the guests. They kept their costumes, and their triumphs were renewed when they showed themselves in front of the scenes. Every one complimented them. No one suspected anything. The ball began again, but Gösta escaped from the ball-room. His heart ached from Marianne’s glance, as if it had been wounded by sharp steel. He understood too well the meaning of her words.