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EANWHILE Leonor had received a wound which he could not support with patience. A hundred times a day he thought of Rose. He was not in love with the woman, he was in love with her love. He saw her as she had appeared to him in the wood at Robinvast, with her whole desire, her whole will, her whole body turned innocently toward M. Hervart and he felt no jealousy; on the contrary, he admired the ingenuous force of so conﬁding, so powerful a love. By having been able to inspire such a love M. Hervart evoked in him an almost superstitious respect; he would willingly have helped him in his amour.

"I should like to know him," he said to himself naively; "I should ask him for advice and lessons. I should beg him to reveal his secret to me."

He would spend hours dreaming on this theme: to be loved like that. In these matters,