"He is not free to do so."
"He is married? Oh! my poor, poor child! But where did you meet him; here—in Italy?"
"I implore you, dear father, do not ask me any more questions. Let me stay with you—" Tears interrupted her.
Laviguerie took her in his arms, and, with inexpressible tenderness said: "Here, dear Germaine, you are unhappy, and I can only mingle my tears with yours. But let us speak of something else. I have received a note from Odette, inviting us to dinner to-morrow. I accepted in your name as well as my own. Have you not neglected your sister somewhat lately? I began to suspect either M. Sirvin or Paul had annoyed you in some way." He stopped. Germaine was as pale and rigid as a statue in his arms. Philosophers, as a rule, are not very clear-sighted; but Germaine's misery revealed the truth to him.
"It is Paul that you love?"
"Yes."
"You met him in Italy?"
"Yes."
Laviguerie recalled the past; Germaine's arrival the very day of Odette's betrothal, and her silence so as not to interfere with her sister's happiness. He knew that a word from Germaine would have broken the engagement; for Odette would never have consented to be the cause of any suffering to Germaine.
Many things now seemed clear to him. He understood why the pure young girl devoted her life to the poor and unhappy, trying to relieve them as much as possible; why she spent all her leisure time sewing for them; and why she had adopted little Bessie. All this privation and work was to divert her mind from her unhappy love, and, by making others happy, to forget her own sorrow; and Laviguerie had prophesied shame and disease to this noble woman, who suffered a martyrdom with such sweet serenity. He asked himself whence came this strength to "suffer and be strong," and an immense sympathy and tenderness filled his heart.