“I!” she exclaimed, overwhelmed with amazement. “But I have just confessed to you—Oh, you know well I cannot—”
“You must marry,” he repeated with greater decision. “You will wed an honest man.”
Within the folds of his old cassock he seemed to have grown more commanding. His large comical-looking head, which, with eyes half-closed, was usually inclined towards one shoulder, was now raised erect, and his eyes beamed with such intensity that she saw them sparkling in the darkness.
“You will marry an honest man, who will be a father to Jeanne, and will lead you back to the path of goodness.”
“But I do not love him. Gracious Heaven! I do not love him!”
“You will love him, my daughter. He loves you, and he is good in heart.”
Hélène struggled, and her voice sank to a whisper as she heard the slight noise that Monsieur Rambaud made behind them. He was so patient and so strong in his hope, that for six months he had not once intruded his love on her. Disposed by nature to the most heroic self-sacrifice, he waited in serene confidence. The Abbé stirred, as though about to turn round.
“Would you like me to tell him everything? He would stretch out his hand and save you. And you would fill him with joy beyond compare.”
She checked him, utterly distracted. Her heart revolted. Both of these peaceful, affectionate men, whose judgment retained perfect equilibrium in presence of her feverish passion, were sources of terror to her. What world could they abide in to be able to set at naught that which caused her so much agony? The priest, however, waved his hand with an all-comprehensive gesture.
“My daughter,” said he, “look on this lovely night, so supremely still in presence of your troubled spirit. Why do you refuse happiness?”