"Can you?"
Madame could only guess; but even if the guess were mistaken, it might lead to the truth. So she spoke tentatively.
"Let us say, you were sitting here, under the elm? And that stranger, that young man—"
There was no need to go on. Marjolaine had already risen to her feet. Her thoughts were let loose: all the thoughts she had locked in her breast during the past week, the memories that had been tormenting her, the problems she had been struggling with. She saw Jack Sayle as if he were standing before her. "He stood over there, in the sun"—she spoke quietly but intensely—"and he looked at me, and I looked at him; and—" her voice was hushed, and although she addressed her mother she did not turn to her, but kept her eyes on the spot where Jack had stood—"Mother! what happened to me? I felt as if he and I had always known each other, and as if we were alone in the world. No! As if he were alone, and I were a part of him. And we spoke. Nothings. Things that didn't matter. Silly things; about his being thirsty, and what I could give him. But it was only our voices speaking. I know it was only my voice: it was not I. I was thinking of sunshine and music and flowers. And then we went into the Gazebo; and the foolish talk ran on! And all the time my heart was singing!—He told me his name; and my heart took it and wove music around it, and sang it! and sang it!" Her voice sank to an awed whisper. "And—Mother!—I seemed to step out of childhood suddenly, into—into what, Mother?—What was it?"
"Alas!" sighed Madame. The child's words had carried her back, so far, so far! Back to her own early youth. Just so had the day been transfigured for her. Just so the sunshine had taken on a new glamour. Just so her own heart had sung its hymns of rapture. Just so she had stepped across the threshold of childhood.
But Marjolaine continued. "When he went, I felt as if he had taken me with him: my heart and my mind. He said he was coming again—but he never came; and every day I have wandered about; looking for what he had taken; looking for my life!" she sank on her knees at her mother's feet. "He will never come again! He will never bring back what he has carried away!—Oh, mother, what is it?"
Her tears flowed freely now, but silently: tears of relief at having unburdened her heart. Madame looked down at her with such pity as only a mother can feel. "My darling! Is it so serious as that? God help us, poor blind things!" She remembered what she must have been doing while this fateful meeting took place. "While my child was going through the fire, I was matching silks for my embroidery!"
Marjolaine looked up at her with great, innocent eyes. "But it would have been the same if you had been there!"
"I suppose so," said Madame, sadly. "There is no barrier against it: not even a mother's arms."
"But what is it?" asked Marjolaine, wistfully.