She would sit looking in my eyes while I told her these things. Sometimes
she would seem to yield to a kind of bliss in hearing them, to forget all
else than ourselves and my words. Then suddenly a look of anguish would
come on her features, she would rise and press her hands to her eyes, as
if to blot out the memory of my look, and say:
"Monsieur, you must not! You must not! You do not know! Oh, if you knew!"
And she would quickly glide away into the chateau, keeping her face
turned from me until she had disappeared.
I began to think that there might be another obstacle than that of our
difference in religion. Perhaps a promise to another or some vow! But I
swore to myself that, whatever the obstacle might be, I would remove
it. The only matter for present disposition was to get her consent to
my doing so.
She would soon return, composed and smiling, with no sign of wishing to
elude me. For the life of me, I could not long refrain from the subject
that had before so strangely put her to flight.
Sometimes when I talked in the strain of love, joy and pain would succeed
each other on her face, sometimes they would seem to be present at the
same moment. From the look of complete abandonment to happiness that
sometimes, though never for long, shone on her features, I felt that she
loved me, and that eventually her love would gain the victory. I
continually tried to elicit an expression of her feelings in words.
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