And, as Aunt Lavarande made no reply, she felt sure of her perfect submission, and went on towards the parlor.
“Dionysia!” cried Jacques as soon as she entered,—“Dionysia!”
He was standing in the centre of this mournful hall, looking whiter than the whitewash on the wall, but apparently calm, and almost smiling. The violence with which he controlled himself was horrible. But how could he allow his betrothed to see his despair? Ought he not, on the contrary, do every thing to reassure her?
He came up to her, took her hands in his, and said,—
“Ah, it is so kind in you to come! and yet I have looked for you ever since the morning. I have been watching and waiting, and trembling at every noise. But will you ever forgive me for having made you come to a place like this, untidy and ugly, without the fatal poetry of horror even?”
She looked at him with such obstinate fixedness, that the words expired on his lips.
“Why will you tell me a falsehood?” she said sadly.
“I tell you a falsehood!”
“Yes. Why do you affect this gayety and tranquillity, which are so far from your heart? Have you no longer confidence in me? Do you think I am a child, from whom the truth must be concealed, or so feeble and good for nothing, that I cannot bear my share of your troubles? Do not smile, Jacques; for I know you have no hope.”
“You are mistaken, Dionysia, I assure you.”