“Several times.”
“Since we have known each other?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me anything about it?”
“I did not think it necessary.”
Maxence insisted no more; but, by the sharp pang that he felt, he realized how dear Mlle. Lucienne had become to him.
“She has secrets from me,” thought he,—“from me who would deem it a crime to have any from her.”
What secrets? Had she concealed from him that she was pursuing an object which had become, as it were, that of her whole life. Had she not told him, that with the assistance of her friend the peace-officer, who had now become commissary of police of the district, she hoped to penetrate the mystery of her birth, and to revenge herself on the villains, who, three times, had attempted to do away with her?
She had never mentioned her projects again; but it was evident that she had not abandoned them, for she would at the same time have given up her rides to the bois, which were to her an abominable torment.
But passion can neither reason nor discuss.