"Poor little girl!" she said, and she kissed me. She added, as if she were echoing the sentiments of the kind old doctor, "Chérie, I am a mother—" Then she stopped. "And I am not such a sour, hard person as I look." The tears stood in her eyes so I took her hand and kissed it. She sat down on a low chair and drew me to a footstool beside her. "Tell me," she said. "Tell me everything. I shall understand."
So I told her. I told her how unhappy I was about Louise and Mireille, I told her about Claude in the hospital. She said, "I know all that. Go on." Then I told her about Florian, how brave and handsome he was, and that we were betrothed. Then I wept bitterly and told her I thought that he was dead.
She raised my face with her hand and looked into my eyes. "Is it he?" she said.
I did not understand. She repeated her question. "Is it he? Did he—" she hesitated as if looking for a word—"did he wrong you?"
"Why? How wrong me?" I asked.
She gazed deeply into my eyes and I gazed back as steadfastly at her, wondering what she meant.
"Did he betray you?"
"Betray me? Never!" I cried. "He could never betray. He is true and faithful as a saint."
I was hurt that she should have asked such a question. Florian, who has never looked at or thought of any woman but me! Betray me!
"Well," she said rising to her feet suddenly—her expression of rather cold dignity again reminded me of the doctor. "If it had been the outrage of an enemy I know you would have told me. However, let it be as you wish. I will say only this: where I could have pitied disgrace, I cannot condone deceit."