"So good, and you his wife, and could deny his name! I do not understand you, Aline de Rochambeau."
Aline flushed scarlet in the darkness. Her own name spoken thus seemed to set a bruise upon her heart.
"It was not that," she cried: "I do not know why I said it, but it was not to deny—him."
Her voice sank very low, and something in it made Ange halt a moment and say:
"Aline, do you love Jacques?"
Aline's hand went to her breast.
"Yes," she said under her breath, and thought the whole wood echoed with the one soft word.
"And does he know that too?" The questioning voice had sunk again to gentleness.
"No, no—oh, no."
"Poor child," said Agnes Desaix, and after that they spoke no more.