"
She regarded me strangely, first as if the suggestion were a welcome one,
then,--while her brow darkened, and a kind of mental anguish forced
itself into her expression,--as if the plan were not at all acceptable.
"But you will not do that, monsieur?" was all that she said.
I could but sigh in puzzlement, and abandon my attempt to make her tell
her feelings.
Sometimes I would suddenly turn my eyes towards her, and catch her
looking at me with mingled tenderness and pity, as a man condemned to die
might be looked on by the woman who loved him. At those times I thought
that she had some fear or foreboding that I might yet fall a victim to
the vengeance of those whom I had offended. Sometimes her look quite
startled me, for it contained, besides a world of grief and pity,
something of self-reproach. I then supposed that she blamed herself for
allowing her fatigue to delay me in my departure from the province.
But these demonstrations did not often escape her. She oftenest showed
the forced cheerfulness that I have already mentioned. The moments when
any kind of distress showed itself were exceptional, and many of them
were caused by the persistence with which I sought a response in words to
my declarations of love.
There came at last the afternoon--how well I remember it!--when we sat
together on the stone bench in the sunlit part of the old courtyard.
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