Which way, which way had Christine gone?⁠ ⁠… Which way would she return?⁠ ⁠…

Would she return? Alas, had she not declared to him that everything was finished? And was the voice not repeating:

“Fate links thee to me forever and a day!”

“Fate links thee to me forever and a day!”

To me? To whom?

Then, worn out, beaten, empty-brained, he sat down on the chair which Christine had just left. Like her, he let his head fall into his hands. When he raised it, the tears were streaming down his young cheeks, real, heavy tears like those which jealous children shed, tears that wept for a sorrow which was in no way fanciful, but which is common to all the lovers on earth and which he expressed aloud: