“Ah, me! How pretty she was at eighteen ... and gracious ... and perfect.... Ah! what a pretty ... pretty ... pretty and kind ... and good ... and charming girl! ... She had eyes ... blue eyes ... transparent ... clear ... the like of which I have never seen ... never!”
He lapsed into silence again. I asked, “Why has she never married?”
He replied, not to me, but to the word “married” that had been let fall:
“Why? Why? She never wished to ... never wished. Though she had thirty thousand francs dowry, and was asked several times ... she never wished to! She seemed sad in those days. That was when I married my cousin, little Charlotte, my wife, to whom I had been engaged for six years.”
I looked at M. Chantal, and it seemed to me that I saw into his soul, that I suddenly saw into one of those humble and cruel dramas of honourable hearts, upright hearts, of hearts without reproach, into one of those mute, unexplored hearts, which no one has understood, not even those who are their uncomplaining and resigned victims.
And, suddenly impelled by a daring curiosity, I blurted out:
“Should not you have married her, Monsieur Chantal?”
He trembled, looked at me, and said:
“I? Marry whom?”
“Mademoiselle Perle.”