“Mamma, have you come to me at last?” said Emilie, plaintively. “Mamma, I shall stay here: I won’t go back....”
She was clutching Henri desperately; and Marianne went up to her, comforted her, kissed her.
“Marianne,” said Henri, “here, a minute....”
He led her out into the passage:
“Marianne,” he said, “you don’t know how fond I am of you ... almost as fond as of Emilie. Marianne, let me just say this to you: be sensible; everybody’s talking about it....”
“Everybody?” she asked, frightened; and she did not even ask what it was, because she understood.
“You even know it yourself then?” he asked, quickly, to take her by surprise.
She withdrew into the mysterious recesses of her little soul, which was too transparent, reflected its radiance too much; she wanted to veil that radiance from him and from the others:
“What?” she said. “There’s nothing to know!... Everybody? Everybody who? Everybody what?...”
“Everybody’s talking about it, about Uncle Henri’s making love to you?”