"There is nothing to tell, Maman," said the girl between her sobs. "Realty and truly there is nothing." She looked wistfully towards the river. "There was something; but—" and down went her head on her mother's breast—"there is nothing now."
Madame stroked the fair head lying on her bosom. "My dear, my dear!—I tried every day to speak to you, but you would not. For the first time in our lives you and I, who should be everything to each other, were parted."
"Oh, Maman!" cried Marjolaine, looking up into her mother's face, "that was because I was waiting to tell you a great secret. But the secret no longer exists. It has"—she made one of her quaint little gestures—"it has—evaporated!" And with a new outburst of tears she again hid her face.
Madame looked at her lovingly, and kept silence a moment. So, then, there was a secret? What secret? What but one secret is ever in a young girl's heart? "Ah, chérie," she murmured, "you see? The secret exists: it is gnawing at your heart. It will hurt you and hurt you, till you tell me."
Marjolaine looked up. Her mother was right. Speaking might bring her some relief. She would tell her. She tried to speak; but a look of puzzled amazement came into her eyes. Now that she was willing and anxious to speak, she had nothing to say.
"Tell me," repeated Madame.
"I can't, Maman."
"Why not?"
"I cannot begin alone: I don't know how."
"Shall I help you, Marjolaine?"