"Mère, chérie," she whispered.
"What, my darling?" asked Madame, coming out of her dream.
Marjolaine pressed her hand to her heart. There was an actual physical pain there, as if an iron band were crushing it. "Is this—is what I feel—love?"
"Ah!" cried Madame, "I have betrayed myself. I did not mean you to know. I am afraid it was going to be—love."
"Going to be! But it is! Or else, this ache? What is it?"
"Crush it now!" Madame was distressed. She would not allow Marjolaine's young life to be blighted as her own had been. "Crush it now! Fiercely! ruthlessly! and it will be nothing. You have only seen him once—"
"Does that make any difference?"
What could one answer to such a question? One could only ignore it. "You must be very brave; very determined; and put the thought of him away."
Marjolaine shook her head sadly. How could she put the thought of him away? It was in her. It filled her. It was she herself. And did she want to put it away? Would she put it away if she could? It seemed to her that if the thought were withdrawn now, she would be left a hollow husk of a thing, with no thought at all.
Madame saw she had gone too far too quickly. "Dear, I know. It took me a long time, because I had been happy so long; but at last, when your father came, I was able to put my hand in his, and look straight into his eyes."