She reappeared in about an hour at the door, and beckoned me to her.
"Listen," said she; "if I should die, would you be sorry?"
"What singular ideas you have to-day," I exclaimed.
"I don't think that I shall live long; it often seems to me that everything about me is bidding me good-by. It is better to die than to live as—Ah! don't look at me so; I assure you that I'm not pretending; otherwise, I shall begin again to be afraid of you."
"Were you afraid of me then?"
"If I am queer, you must not reproach me. See, already I can no longer laugh."
She remained sad and preoccupied until the end of the evening. I could not understand what had come over her. Her eyes often rested upon me; my heart was oppressed under her enigmatic look. She appeared calm; nevertheless, in looking at her, I could not keep from saying something to lessen her trouble. I contemplated her with emotion; I found a touching charm in the pallor spread over her features, in the timidity of her indecisive movements. She all the while imagined that I was in a bad humor.
"Listen," she said to me before I left, "I fear that you do not take me seriously. In future believe all that I tell you; but you, in your turn, be frank with me; be sure that I shall never tell you anything but the truth,—I give you my word of honor!"
This expression, "word of honor," made me smile once more.
"Ah! don't laugh," said she vivaciously, "or I shall repeat what you told me yesterday, 'Why do you laugh?' Do you remember," added she, after a moment's silence, "that yesterday you spoke to me of wings? These wings have sprung forth. I don't know where to fly."