"Bernard," she said, in a cold tone, "this is neither the time nor the
place for an explanation."

"Oh, I know well enough," I replied, "that, according to you, it will
never be the time or the place. But I shall manage to find both, do not
fear. You said that you loved me. You threw your arms about my neck
and said, as you kissed me--yes, here, I can still feel your lips on my
cheeks: 'Save me, and I swear on the gospel, on my honour, by the memory
of my mother and your own, that I will be yours.' I can see through it;
you said that because you were afraid that I should use my strength, and
now you avoid me because you are afraid I shall claim my right. But
you will gain nothing by it. I swear that you shall not trifle with me
long."

"I will never be yours," she replied, with a coldness which was becoming
more and more icy, "if you do not make some change in your language,
and manners, and feelings. In your present state I certainly do not fear
you. When you appeared to me good and generous, I might have yielded to
you, half from fear and half from affection. But from the moment I cease
to care for you, I also cease to be afraid of you. Improve your manners,
improve your mind, and we will see."

"Very good," I said, "that is a promise I can understand. I will act on
it, and if I cannot be happy, I will have my revenge."

"Take your revenge as much as you please," she said. "That will only
make me despise you."

So saying, she drew from her bosom a piece of paper, and burnt it in the
flame of her candle.