In this somewhat legal phraseology love is bound to sex, age, and social classes; it is either natural or unnatural, legitimate or the reverse.  But this is a mere trickle of water from the deep springs of love, which is as the law of gravitation that keeps the stars in their courses, and cares nothing for the ways that we trace for it.  This infinite love fulfils itself between souls far removed by time and space; across the centuries it unites the thoughts of the living and the dead; weaves close and chaste ties between old and young hearts; through it, friend is nearer to friend, the child is closer in spirit to the old man than are husband or wife in the whole course of their lives.  Between fathers and children these ties often exist unconsciously, and “the world” as our forefathers used to say, counts so little in comparison with love eternal, that the positions are sometimes reversed, and the younger may not always be the most childlike.  How many sons are there who feel a devout paternal affection for an old mother?  And do we not often see ourselves small and humble under the eyes of a child?  The look with which the Bambino of Botticelli contemplates the innocent Virgin is heavy with a sad unconscious experience, and as old as the world.

The affection of Clerambault and Rosine was of this sort; fine, religious, above the reach of reason.  That is why, in the depths of the troubled sea, below the pains and the conflicts of conscience caused by the war, a secret drama went on, without signs, almost without words, between these hearts united by a sacred love.  This unavowed sentiment explained the sensitiveness of their mutual reactions.  At first Rosine drew away in silence, disappointed in her affection, her secret worship tarnished, by the effect of the war on her father; she stood apart from him, like a little antique statue, chastely draped.  At once Clerambault became uneasy; his sensibility sharpened by tenderness, felt instantly this Noli me tangere, and from this arose an unexpressed estrangement between the father and daughter.  Words are so coarse, one would not dare to speak even in the purest sense of disappointed love, but this inner discord, of which neither ever spoke a word, was pain to both of them; made the young girl unhappy, and irritated Clerambault.  He knew the cause well enough, but his pride refused to admit it; though little by little he was not far from confessing that Rosine was right.  He was ready to humiliate himself, but his tongue was tied by false shame; and so the difference between their minds grew wider, while in their hearts each longed to yield.

In the confusion that followed Maxime’s death, this inward prayer pressed more on the one less able to resist.  Clerambault was prostrated by his grief, his wife aimlessly busy, and Rosine was out all day at her war work.  They only came together at meals.  But it happened that one evening after dinner Clerambault heard her mother violently scolding Rosine, who had spoken of wounded enemies whom she wanted to take care of.  Madame Clerambault was as indignant as if her daughter had committed a crime, and appealed to her husband.  His weary, vague, sad eyes had begun to see; he looked at Rosine who was silent, her head bent, waiting for his reply.