With each sentence he paused, in the hope that she might break in and discuss his proposition. But no; she sat there as if lifeless, seemingly benumbed with astonishment.
“No doubt you have a child,” he resumed. “That is always a delicate matter to surmount. Still, you must admit that even in Jeanne’s interest a husband’s arm would be of great advantage. Of course, we must find some one good and honorable, who would be a true father—”
However, she did not let him finish. With violent revolt and repulsion she suddenly spoke out: “No, no; I will not! Oh, my friend, how can you advise me thus? Never, do you hear, never!”
Her whole heart was rising; she herself was frightened by the violence of her refusal. The priest’s proposal had stirred up that dim nook in her being whose secret she avoided reading, and, by the pain she experienced, she at last understood all the gravity of her ailment. With the open, smiling glance of the priest still bent on her, she plunged into contention.
“No, no; I do not wish it! I love nobody!”
And, as he still gazed at her, she imagined he could read her lie on her face. She blushed and stammered:
“Remember, too, I only left off my mourning a fortnight ago. No, it could not be!”
“My child!” quietly said the priest, “I thought over this a great deal before speaking. I am sure your happiness is wrapped up in it. Calm yourself; you need never act against your own wishes.”
The conversation came to a sudden stop. Hélène strove to keep pent within her bosom the angry protests that were rushing to her lips. She resumed her work, and, with head lowered, contrived to put in a few stitches. And amid the silence, Jeanne’s shrill voice could be heard in the dining-room.
“People don’t put a chicken to a carriage; it ought to be a horse! You don’t know how to make a horse, do you?”