Neither gave way to the other, though at every moment they were
liable to some surprise; for not only were all the doors open, so that
the servants might come in, but the Baron's voice still rang out gaily,
close at hand.
"He loves you, he loves you"--continued Eve. "That's what you say. But
/he/ never told you so."
"He has told me so twenty times; he repeats it every time that we are
alone together!"
"Yes, just as one says it to a little girl by way of amusing her. But he
has never told you that he meant to marry you."
"He told it me the last time he came. And it's settled. I'm simply
waiting for him to get his mother's consent and make his formal offer."
"You lie, you lie, you wretched girl! You simply want to make me suffer,
and you lie, you lie!"
Eve's grief at last burst forth in that cry of protest. She no longer
knew that she was a mother, and was speaking to her daughter. The woman,
the /amorosa/, alone remained in her, outraged and exasperated by a
rival. And with a sob she confessed the truth: "It is I he loves! Only
the last time I spoke to him, he swore to me--you hear me?--he swore upon
his honour that he did not love you, and that he would never marry you!"
A faint, sharp laugh came from Camille. Then, with an air of derisive
compassion, she replied: "Ah! my poor mamma, you really make me sorry for
you! What a child you are! Yes, really, you are the child, not I.
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