He nods, in acquiescence to the first sentiment. He's not sure he agrees with the second. The question itself is still misunderstood, for one.

'It is my hope for you,' mon cher, he thinks the words to himself but does not let them pass his lips or his thoughts, 'that one day, you will understand.'

'And if you are to receive a second chance, one not offered to another, equally, if not moreso, deserving, if you are to receive such a chance, I beg you, do not squander it on hatred and rage.'

A span of heartbeats, but not a lifetime. Not his very soul. Simply a span of heartbeats, that mean the world to him just now, however violently or subversively he acquired them. They are a precious memory, and he will not relinquish them, not for guilt or penance, not even for forgiveness.