"'A woman doesn't talk to her gaoler.' "He protested briskly: "'But, dash it all, you're not in prison!' "'Can I leave the château?' "'You can walk about . . . in the grounds. . . .' "'Between four walls, therefore, like a prisoner.' "'Well, what do you want to do?' "'To go away from here and live . . . wherever you tell me to: at Corvigny, for instance.' "'That is to say, away from me!' "As I did not answer, he bent forward a little and continued, in a low voice: "'You hate me, don't you? Oh, I'm quite aware of it! I've made a study of women. Only, it's Prince Conrad whom you hate, isn't it? It's the German, the conqueror. For, after all, there's no reason why you should dislike the man himself. . . . And, at this moment, it's the man who is in question, who is trying to please you . . . do you understand? . . . So. . . .' "I had risen to my feet and faced him. I did not speak a single word; but he must have seen in my eyes so great an expression of disgust that he stopped in the middle of his sentence, looking absolutely stupid. Then, his nature getting the better of him, he shook his fist at me, like a common fellow, and went off slamming the door and muttering threats. . . ." The next two pages of the diary were missing. Paul was gray in the face. He had never suffered to such an extent as this. It seemed to him as though his poor dear Élisabeth were still alive before his eyes and feeling his eyes upon her. And nothing could have upset him more than the cry of distress and love which marked the page headed: _1 September._ "Paul, my own Paul, have no fear. Yes, I tore up those two pages because I did not wish you ever to know such revolting things. But that will not estrange you from me, will it? Because a savage dared to insult me, that is no reason, surely, why I should not be worthy of your love? Oh, the things he said to me, Paul, only yesterday: his offensive remarks, his hateful threats, his even more infamous promises . . . and then his rage! . . . No, I will not repeat them to you. In making a confidant of this diary, I meant to confide to you my daily acts and thoughts. I believed that I was only writing down the evidence of my grief. But this is something different; and I have not the courage. . . . Forgive my silence. It will be enough for you to know the offense, so that you may avenge me later. Ask me no more. . . ."