And she passionately kissed the coverlet of the bed beside which she must often have sat up watching my uncle when he was ill. Her fit of crying lasted a long time and did not cease until just as I entered. Then she turned her head, saw me and stood up slowly, without taking her eyes from my face: "You!" she murmured. "It's you!" Seeing her make for the door, I said: "Don't go, Bérangère." She stopped, looking paler than ever, with drawn features. "Give me that sheet of paper," I said, in a voice of command. She handed it to me, with a quick movement. After a brief pause, I continued: "Why did you come to fetch it? My uncle told you of its existence, didn't he? And you . . . you were taking it to my uncle's murderers, so that they might have nothing more to fear and be the only persons to know the secret? . . . Speak, Bérangère, will you?" I had raised my voice and was advancing towards her. She took another step back. "You shan't move, do you hear? Stay where you are. Listen to me and answer me!" She made no further attempt to move. Her eyes were filled with such distress that I adopted a calmer demeanour: "Answer me," I said, very gently. "You know that, whatever you may have done, I am your friend, your indulgent friend, and that I mean to help you . . . and advise you. There are feelings which are proof against everything. Mine for you is of that sort. It is more than affection: you know it is, don't you, Bérangère? You know that I love you?" Her lips quivered, she tried to speak, but could not. I repeated again and again: "I love you! . . . I love you!" And, each time, she shuddered, as though these words, which I spoke with infinite emotion, which I had never spoken so seriously or so sincerely, as if these words wounded her in the very depths of her soul. What a strange creature she was! I tried to put my hand on her shoulder. She avoided my friendly touch. "What can you see to fear in me," I asked, "when I love you? Why not confess everything? You are not a free agent, are you? You are being forced to act as you do and you hate it all?" Once more, anger was overmastering me. I was exasperated by her silence. I saw no way of compelling her to reply, of overcoming that incomprehensible obstinacy except by clasping her in my arms and yielding to the instinct of violence which urged me towards some brutal action. I went boldly forward. But I had not taken a step before she spun round on her heel, so swiftly that I thought that she would drop to the floor in the doorway. I followed her into the other room. She uttered a terrible scream. At the same moment I was knocked down by a sudden blow. The man Massignac, who had been hiding in the dressing-room and watching us, had leapt at me and was attacking me furiously, while Bérangère fled to the staircase. "Your daughter," I spluttered, defending myself, "your daughter! . . . Stop her! . . ."