"Then I should beg my pardon of the man I have offended. I will never
run the risk of taking a happiness I know would quickly end."
"End!" cried Calyste.
The marquise stopped the passionate speech into which her lover was
about to launch, by repeating the word "End!" in a tone that silenced
him.
This opposition roused in the young man one of those mute inward
furies known only to those who love without hope. They walked on
several hundred steps in total silence, looking neither at the sea,
nor the rocks, nor the plain of Croisic.
"I would make you happy," said Calyste.
"All men begin by promising that," she answered, "and they end by
abandonment and disgust. I have no reproach to cast on him to whom I
shall be faithful. He made me no promises; I went to him; but my only
means of lessening my fault is to make it eternal."
"Say rather, madame, that you feel no love for me. I, who love you, I
know that love cannot argue; it is itself; it sees nothing else. There
is no sacrifice I will not make to you; command it, and I will do the
impossible.
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