"You—you—you—think my cousin Maurice loves Bertha?" she asked, hardly aware of the pointedness of her own question.
"I do not exactly say that; but how will it be possible for him to help loving her? Good gracious, Mademoiselle Madeleine! what have I said to affect you? How pale you have become!"
Madeleine struggled to appear composed, but the hands that held the snarled skein trembled, and no effort of will could force the retreating blood back to her face.
"Nothing—you have said nothing,—you are quite right, I—I—I dare say."
"Why, you are just as troubled and embarrassed as I was just now."
"I? nonsense! I'm—I'm—I'm only—only—"
"And you stammer,—you actually stammer almost as badly as I do!" exclaimed Gaston, in exultation. "Ah, Mademoiselle Madeleine! I have betrayed to you my secret,—you have discovered yours to me!"
"Monsieur de Bois, I implore you, do not speak another word on this subject! Enough that, if I had a secret, there is no one in the world to whom I would sooner confide it."
"Why, then, do you now wish to hide from me the preference with which you honor your cousin?"