Claire flung back her head. “Sometimes I think,” she said, “that Léon has no soul, though of course you do not understand what I mean.”
“No soul!” Félicie stared amazedly. Claire turned and hurried away.
It was quite true, as Mlle. de Beaudrillart said, that the bishop had asked for young Mme. Léon, and that they were at that moment walking together in the kitchen-garden, between strawberry beds, of which the leaves were turning brown and bronze. More than ever, in the church, had her face, with its strength and sadness, interested him. He felt as if he could not leave that face behind without trying to bring a little comfort; and if there was a pinch of curiosity mixed with his never-failing sympathy, who will blame him? With womanlike tact he went straight to his point.
“My daughter,” he said, “you are in trouble.”
She answered him as directly. “Yes, monseigneur, in great trouble.”
“Can you tell it to me!”
This time she hesitated. “I do not know. It is not my own.”
“No. It is your husband’s. Does it belong to his past or present!”
“Oh, his past, poor Léon!”
“One other question. Are you in doubt?”