Marcel was still under the charm of the voice that uttered these gentle words, when those clear, luminous eyes fell on him. He returned the look with an inquisitive and, perhaps, rather bold glance, for she immediately turned aside. At the same time a slight blush, as though accompanied with a shudder, passed over her smiling face, which suddenly became serious.
“I must thank you, mademoiselle, for the sentiments you express regarding our dear Geneviève. For ourselves,” continued Madame Baradier, “rest assured we shall not endeavour to influence her in her affections.”
Mademoiselle Lichtenbach bowed, gave a graceful nod to Amélie, and, on passing in front of Marcel, heard the latter say to her, in troubled tones—
“Permit me, mademoiselle, to show you the way.”
Opening the door of the salon, and, taking the mantle the young girl had left in the hall, he placed it over her shoulders. Then, walking by her side, his mother and sister looking on in stupefaction, he descended the steps, followed by the footman. On reaching the bottom he said, with a charm full of grace—
“Mademoiselle de Trémont’s departure will doubtless make your stay at the convent seem rather sad to you now, mademoiselle?”
“Yes. I hope Geneviève will not forget me, but come and see me.”
“After all, probably you will not stay long yourself at the Sacre-Coeur.”
“I was like Mademoiselle de Trémont, alone with my father. Geneviève will find a mother in Madame Baradier, whilst I—”
She left the sentence unfinished. Marcel, however, well understood the sadness of her meaning—“I shall remain abandoned, as I have been all my life. My youthful years will pass away behind the sad walls of a convent, under the cold, methodical surveillance of nuns, most excellent persons, but incapable of giving me that warmth of affection I need to be happy. My friend is leaving me, and all the sweetness of my life is past.”