And Marguerite began to speak. The words issued from her lips one by one—hoarse, jerky, tremulous.
“Pardon, pardon, sister! pardon me! Oh, if only you knew how I have dreaded this moment all my life!”
Suzanne faltered through her tears:
“But what have I to pardon, little one? You have given me everything, sacrificed all to me. You are an angel.”
But Marguerite interrupted her:
“Be silent, be silent! Let me speak! Don't stop me! It is terrible. Let me tell all, to the very end, without interruption. Listen. You remember—you remember—Henry—”
Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister. The younger one went on:
“In order to understand you must hear everything. I was twelve years old—only twelve—you remember, don't you? And I was spoilt; I did just as I pleased. You remember how everybody spoilt me? Listen. The first time he came he had on his riding boots; he dismounted, saying that he had a message for father. You remember, don't you? Don't speak. Listen. When I saw him I was struck with admiration. I thought him so handsome, and I stayed in a corner of the drawing-room all the time he was talking. Children are strange—and terrible. Yes, indeed, I dreamt of him.
“He came again—many times. I looked at him with all my eyes, all my heart. I was large for my age and much more precocious than—any one suspected. He came often. I thought only of him. I often whispered to myself:
“'Henry-Henry de Sampierre!'