“Yes,” said Therese, “you had perhaps given me more of your heart than one does ordinarily in such 180 cases.  I was more than an amusement for you.  But, if I am not the woman you thought I was, if I have deceived you, if I am frivolous—­you know people have said so—­well, if I have not been to you what I should have been—­”

She hesitated, and continued in a brave tone, contrasting with what she said: 

“If, while I was yours, I have been led astray; if I have been curious; if I say to you that I was not made for serious sentiment—­”

He interrupted her: 

“You are not telling the truth.”

“No, I am not telling the truth.  And I do not know how to lie.  I wished to spoil our past.  I was wrong.  It was—­you know what it was.  But—­”

“But?”

“I have always told you I was not sure of myself.  There are women, it is said, who are sure of themselves.  I warned you that I was not like them.”

He shook his head violently, like an irritated animal.

“What do you mean?  I do not understand.  I understand nothing.  Speak clearly.  There is something between us.  I do not know what.  I demand to know what it is.  What is it?”

“There is the fact that I am not a woman sure of herself, and that you should not rely on me.  No, you should not rely on me.  I had promised nothing—­and then, if I had promised, what are words?”

“You do not love me.  Oh, you love me no more!  I can see it.  But it is so much the worse for you!  I love you.  You should not have given yourself to me.  Do not think that you can take yourself back.  I love you and I shall keep you.  So you thought you could get out of it very quietly?  Listen a moment.  You have done everything to make me love you, to attach me to you, to make it impossible for me to live without you.

“Six weeks ago you asked for nothing better.  You were everything for me, I was everything for you.  And now you desire suddenly that I should know you no longer; that you should be to me a stranger, a lady whom one meets in society.  Ah, you have a fine audacity!  Have I dreamed?  All the past is a dream?  I invented it all?  Oh, there can be no doubt of it.  You loved me.  I feel it still.  Well, I have not changed.  I am what I was; you have nothing to complain of.  I have not betrayed you for other women.  It isn’t credit that I claim.  I could not have done it.  When one has known you, one finds the prettiest women insipid.  I never have had the idea of deceiving you.  I have always acted well toward you.  Why should you not love me?  Answer!  Speak!  Say you love me still.  Say it, since it is true.  Come, Therese, you will feel at once that you love as you loved me formerly in the little nest where we were so happy.  Come!”

He approached her ardently.  She, her eyes full of fright, pushed him away with a kind of horror.

He understood, stopped, and said: