I could stifle the foul emotion no longer—no longer conceal it. It must have expression in words.
I had purposely remained standing with my face averted from her, till D’Hauteville was gone out of sight. Longer, too. I was endeavouring to still the wild throbbings of my breast—to affect the calmness of indifference. Vain hypocrisy! To her eyes my spite must have been patent, for in this the keen instincts of woman are not to be baffled.
It was even so. She comprehended all. Hence the wild act—the abandon to which at that moment she gave way.
I was turning to carry out my design, when I felt the soft pressure of her body against mine—her arms encircled my neck—her head, with face upturned, rested upon my bosom, and her large lustrous eyes sought mine with a look of melting inquiry.
That look should have satisfied me. Surely no eyes but the eyes of love could have borne such expression?
And yet I was not content. I faltered out—
“Aurore, you do not love me!”
“Ah, Monsieur! pourquoi cette cruauté? Je t’aime—mon Dieu! avec tout mon coeur je t’aime!”
Even this did not still my suspicious thoughts. The circumstances had been too strong—jealousy had taken too firm a hold to be plucked out by mere assurances. Explanation alone could satisfy me. That or confession.
Having made a commencement, I went on. I detailed what I had seen at the landing—the after conduct of D’Hauteville—what I had observed the preceding night—what I had just that moment witnessed. I detailed all. I added no reproaches. There was time enough for them when I should receive her answer.