I began to tremble a little, because I perceived that the moment had come.  I waited a moment to see whether Aniela would take up my question, and then, in a voice I tried to render steady, I said,—­

“Surely you must see and understand that my whole being belongs to you; that I loved you and love you still madly.”

Aniela stood still as if turned to stone.  By the icy coldness of my face I felt that I was growing pale; and if the world seemed to totter under that poor child’s feet, it was my life, too, which was at stake.  Knowing with whom I had to deal, I did not give her time to repulse me.  I began to speak very quickly:—­

“Do not answer me, for I do not want anything from you.  I desire nothing,—­nothing whatever, understand that well.  I wanted to tell you that you have taken my life, and it is henceforth yours, to do with it what you like.  But you have seen yourself that such is the case, and it matters nothing whether I speak of it or not.  I repeat that I desire nothing, nor do I expect anything.  You cannot repulse me, because I repulse myself.  I only tell you as I might tell a friend, a sister.  I come and complain to you, because I have nowhere else to go, that I love a woman that belongs to somebody else,—­love her to distraction,—­oh, Aniela!—­and without limit!”

We were near the gate, but still in the deep shadow of the trees.  For a moment I had the delusion that she was leaning towards me like a broken flower, that I might snatch her into my arms; but I was mistaken.

Aniela, recovering from the sudden shock, began suddenly to say, with a kind of nervous energy I had not suspected in her,—­

“I will not listen to this, Leon.  I will not; I will not; I will not!”

And she ran into the moonlit courtyard.  Yes; she ran away from my words,—­my confession.  Presently she disappeared within the portico, and I remained alone with a feeling of unrest, fear, and great pity for her, and triumph at the same time that the words which should be the beginning of a new life for us both had been spoken.  For, to say the truth, I could not expect anything else from her at first; but the seed from which something must spring up was sown.

When I came into the house there was no Aniela visible.  I found only my aunt, walking up and down the room muttering her rosary and soliloquizing between the prayers.  I said good-night, and went at once to my room thinking that it would calm me if I put down the day’s impressions; but it only tired me more.  I intend to go away to-morrow, or rather to-day, for I see the daylight coming through the window.  I want to confirm Aniela in the conviction that I expect nothing from her,—­want her to calm down and get familiar with what I told her.  But to confess the whole truth, I go away also because I am afraid to meet her so soon, and would fain put it off.  There are moments when it seems to me a monstrous deed to have introduced an element of