“Yes; and you, do you not love Mathilde?”
“I love her, yes, as one does a sister; not as I do you, Alaine.”
“As I love Gerard and as he loves me, no doubt. But one must be guided by one’s parents.”
“And your parents; one is in heaven, the other in Guadaloupa, as you have told me. Therefore, Alaine——”
“Therefore I have no one to whom I can refer you except Papa Louis and Mère Michelle.”
“And yourself, Alaine? Ah, if you but knew how anguished I was at your disappearance; if you knew how I have thought of you, of you only since that blessed Sunday when you walked to church.”
“And not before?”
“Before? Yes, ever since your little face like a star came to illumine my sky.”
Alaine put her head bird-wise to one side. “You are a poet? I never knew that. You are so solemn, as an owl, Pierre. We should quarrel, yes, about those questions of theology. I am light-minded; when I have thrown aside a sorrow you do not know how I make merry over little things, and that would seem childish and unbecoming to you.”
“You are not really that, Alaine. You are full of courage and dignity, yet you are also like the birds who sing. Ah, my soul, when I heard your voice in the woods singing ‘Aux paroles que je veux dire,’ I thought I should expire with joy.”