upon Clotilde. He had turned his eyes away from Martine, and fixed
them on the young girl, who did not turn hers away, however, with a
courage which accepted the responsibility of her act.

"You! you!" he said at last.

He seized her arm, and pressed it until she cried. But she continued
to look him full in the face, without quailing before him, with the
indomitable will of her individuality, of her selfhood. She was
beautiful and provoking, with her tall, slender figure, robed in its
black blouse; and her exquisite, youthful fairness, her straight
forehead, her finely cut nose, her firm chin, took on something of a
warlike charm in her rebellion.

"You, whom I have made, you who are my pupil, my friend, my other
mind, to whom I have given a part of my heart and of my brain! Ah,
yes! I should have kept you entirely for myself, and not have allowed
your stupid good God to take the best part of you!"

"Oh, monsieur, you blaspheme!" cried Martine, who had approached him,
in order to draw upon herself a part of his anger.

But he did not even see her. Only Clotilde existed for him. And he was
as if transfigured, stirred up by so great a passion that his handsome
face, crowned by his white hair, framed by his white beard, flamed
with youthful passion, with an immense tenderness that had been
wounded and exasperated.

"You, you!" he repeated in a trembling voice.