“And thou art still fretting in secret, my dove?”
“I do not know about fretting. I think that is too energetic a word. It would be better to say—dying.”
“Magot, mine own, my sunbeam! Do not use such words!”
“It is better to see the truth, Lady. And that is true. But I do not think it will be over in a month.”
The Countess could not trust herself to speak. She went on stroking the soft hair.
“Father Bruno says that love can kill weak people. I suppose I am weak. I feel as if I should be glad when it is all done with.”
“When what is done with?” asked the Countess, in a husky tone.
“Living,” said the girl. “This weary round of dressing, eating, working, talking, and sleeping. When it is all done, and one may lie down to sleep and not wake to-morrow,—I feel as if that were the only thing which would ever make me glad any more.”
“My heart! Dost thou want to leave me?”
“I would have lived, Lady, for your sake, if I could have done. But I cannot. The rosebud that you loved is faded: it cannot give out scent any more. It is not me,—me, your Margaret—that works, and talks, and does all these things. It is only my body, which cannot die quite so fast as my soul. My heart is dead already.”