"You are my friend, madame?"
"Oh, a very devoted and sincere one," she replied, with such a joyful look of gratitude.
"Then I can speak freely to you?"
"Speak as you would to a sister," she said to me, as she held out her hand, smiling, and pleased to find that at last we understood each other.
I took her beautiful hand and kissed it; then I continued:
"As to a sister? Well, let it be so, for no doubt, in this amusing comedy, you expect me to take the part of an honourable but stupid brother, who bemoans with his sister her unrequited love."
She looked wildly at me; her hands fell again on her knees; she was unable to utter a word. I continued:
"But we will not speak of that. I wish to tell you, as a friend, the various convictions which, thanks to my knowledge of your frankness, have passed through my mind since I saw you bowed at the foot of the crucifix. As for that charming pantomime, I must say that you were in a most artistic pose. Your eyes raised to heaven, your clasped hands, your tears,—it was a beautiful piece of acting; so, as I had no faith in your grief, but a great deal in your talent for mystification, I waited to see the comedy acted out."
"A comedy!" said she, not seeming to understand my words.
"A mystification, madame, of which I should have been the ridiculous object, had I been weak enough to offer to console you, or to make you any sentimental speeches on the subject of melancholy, misanthropy, lost illusions, and other strange nightmares that were supposed to be wearing my life away."