She felt the ice of indifference that numbed her heart melt at the contact of the love; she would throw herself on Rodolphe's breast, and tell him by kisses all that she was unable to tell him in words.

And dawn surprised them thus enlaced together--eyes fixed on eyes, hands clasped in hands--whilst their moist and burning lips were still murmuring that immortal word "that for five thousand years has lingered nightly on lovers' lips." But the next day the most futile pretext brought about a quarrel, and love alarmed fled again for some time.
In the end, however, Rodolphe perceived that if he did not take care the white hands of Mademoiselle Mimi would lead him to an abyss in which he would leave his future and his youth.

For a moment stern reason spoke in him more strongly than love, and he convinced himself by strong arguments, backed up by proofs, that his mistress did not love him.

He went so far as to say to himself, that the hours of love she granted him were nothing but a mere sensual caprice such as married women feel for their husbands when they long for a cashmere shawl or a new dress, or when their lover is away, in accordance with the proverb that half a loaf is better than no bread.

In short, Rodolphe could forgive his mistress everything except not being loved.