“Speak to me of him, then?” she exclaimed, giving herself up entirely to the recollection of her lover, and forgetting that it was the first time she had seen the person to whom she was addressing questions of so delicate a nature. “What is he doing? what hope has he? Poor, unhappy man!”
“He loves you—and he hopes again to see you.”
“Then, then,” stammered Marguerite, and drawing back some paces,—“he has told you——?”
“All!”
“Oh!” she cried, looking down and concealing her face, over which a sudden tinge of red had cast itself, replacing for a moment its habitual paleness.
Paul approached her and clasping her to his breast, exclaiming—
“You are a miracle of devotedness!”
“You do not then despise me, sir?” said Marguerite, Venturing to raise her eyes.
“Marguerite!” cried Paul, “had I a sister I would pray to heaven that she might resemble you.”
“Oh! were it so you would have a most unhappy sister,” she replied, leaning upon his arm and bursting into tears.