“Let me in, love! It is Thérèse. No one else shall come. If you love me, let me in.”
There was no answer.
“You have killed her, I believe,” she said to the priest, who was walking up and down in great disturbance—not with himself, but with the faithless creature of passion he had to deal with.
“The windows!” exclaimed Thérèse, vexed not to have thought of this before. She stepped out upon the balcony. One of the chamber-windows was open, and she entered. No one was there. Génifrède must have fled down the steps from the balcony into the gardens; and there Thérèse hastened after her. In one of the fenced walks leading to the fountain, she saw the fluttering of her clothes.
“The reservoir!” thought Thérèse, in despair.
She was not mistaken. Génifrède stood on the brink of the deep and brimming reservoir—her hands were clasped above her head for the plunge, when a strong hand seized her arm, and drew her irresistibly back. In ungovernable rage she turned, and saw her father.
“They say,” she screamed, “that every one worships you. Not true now! Never true more! I hate—I curse—”
He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awed her childhood. It awed her now. Her voice sank into a low shuddering and muttering.
“That any one should have dared to tell you—that any one should have interfered between me and my poor child!” he said, as if involuntarily, while seating her on the fresh grass. He threw himself down beside her, holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.
“This sod is fresh and green,” said he; “but would we were all lying under it!”