“You confess it, then?” I broke in eagerly; but she stopped me with a gesture.
“I have always been happy—at least until the past few days. And in the garden I fancied that even the little cloud which seemed to shadow me would disappear. Now, on the contrary, I am far from happy.”
“You are at least no coward,” I said. “You are not afraid.”
“No, I am not afraid. It is the sense of helplessness which weighs upon me and angers me. I have always ordered my life to suit myself; I have always had control of the circumstances which concerned me. Yet here I am now, caught like a rat in a trap. I can break my teeth against the bars, and all in vain. I must wait for some miracle to deliver me, and not only myself but my dearest friends. Meanwhile their home, their beautiful home, is burned before my eyes, and I must look on helpless while a mob of drunken brutes rejoices in its destruction. I know that no miracle can restore it. And yet, M. de Tavernay, you ask me to fancy myself in some fool’s paradise!”
“It was a paradise,” I agreed; “whether a fool’s or a wise man’s does not matter. Paradise is always paradise.”
“Not for the onlookers!” she retorted.
“But what need those within care for those without? Ah, I understand—you class yourself as an onlooker. You have not love to work the alchemy for you,” I added sadly.
She looked up at me slowly with luminous eyes.
“Perhaps you are right,” she said. “I have never been really within the pale. I have always stood outside, peering in, wondering why others thought it so beautiful.”
I know not what folly I was about to utter, when a sudden tremendous crash sounded behind me.