Her face was grave as she listened, eloquent with a dumb reproach which tortured him, and impelled him to pour forth his passionate love.
But Hélène still remained standing, wholly unmoved. At last she spoke. “You know nothing, then?” asked she.
He had taken her hand, and was raising it to his lips, when she started back with a gesture of impatience.
“Oh! leave me!” she exclaimed. “You see that I am not even listening to you. I have something far different to think about!”
Then becoming more composed, she put her question to him a second time. “You know nothing? Well, my daughter is ill. I am pleased to see you; you will dispel my fears.”
She took up the lamp and walked on before him, but as they were passing through the doorway, she turned, and looking at him, said firmly:
“I forbid you beginning again here. Oh! you must not!”
He entered behind her, scarcely understanding what had been enjoined on him. His temples throbbed convulsively, as he leaned over the child’s little crib.
“She is asleep; look at her,” said Hélène in a whisper.
He did not hear her; his passion would not be silenced. She was hanging over the bed in front of him, and he could see her rosy neck, with its wavy hair. He shut his eyes that he might escape the temptation of kissing her, as she said to him: