‘You are stronger to-day than ever, mademoiselle,’ she was saying in French; ‘you will soon be able to leave this room.’
The invalid sat silent, her eyes on the dreary, winter landscape, her pale beautiful face set like a mask of utter forlornness and despair; then slowly, convulsively, her bosom shook, her eyes filled, and large tears coursed silently over her cheek.
‘O mademoiselle, do not weep! It breaks my heart to see you. Courage! Are you not nearly well? Ah, yes! and there will be happy days in store for you, after so great trouble.’
The invalid smiled sadly, and shook her head; then reaching out a wasted hand, she took one of the French girl’s.
‘Adèle!’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you ever care for any one very, very much? I don’t mean foolishly, like young girls who think they love; but passionately, religiously, with your whole heart and soul? I do not speak of women, but of men, Adèle; though there are good women too.’
With a curiously beautiful shame Adèle turned her face away, while a faint flush crept over her face. After a moment she replied evasively:—
‘There are few good men, mademoiselle.’
‘But have you known none?’