“Bernard, you are unhappy. Tell me; is it my fault?”
I was unable to reply; I was ashamed of my tears, but the more I tried to restrain them the more my breast heaved with sobs. With men as physically strong as I was, tears are generally convulsions; mine were like the pangs of death.
“Come now! Just tell me what is wrong,” cried Edmee, with some of the bluntness of sisterly affection.
And she ventured to put her hand on my shoulder. She was looking at me with an expression of wistfulness, and a big tear was trickling down her cheek. I threw myself on my knees and tried to speak, but that was still impossible. I could do no more than mutter the word to-morrow several times.
“‘To-morrow?’ What of tomorrow?” said Edmee. “Do you not like being here? Do you want to go away?”
“I will go, if it will please you,” I replied. “Tell me; do you wish never to see me again?”
“I do not wish that at all,” she rejoined. “You will stop here, won’t you.”
“It is for you to decide,” I answered.
She looked at me in astonishment. I was still on my knees. She leant over the back of my chair.
“Yes; I am quite sure that you are good at heart,” she said, as if she were answering some inner objection. “A Mauprat can be nothing by halves; and as soon as you have once known a good quarter of an hour, it is certain you ought to have a noble life before you.”