The expression of Fleurange’s large eyes was such as can only be compared to that magnetic virtue—that sometimes subdues, they say, the fury of beings destitute of reason. No words could have expressed to such a degree the uprightness and purity of her soul. With all her faults, there was a nobleness in the princess’ nature which was touched by that look, and responded to it. Her eyes turned away: she fell back on her chaise longue, and unresistingly allowed Fleurange to take both her hands, which had just made so threatening a gesture. She held them for some moments grasped in her own, but neither of them spoke.
At last Fleurange said in a sweet, calm voice: “Princess, I was on the terrace, and heard everything.”
A new flash of indignation awoke in the princess’ eyes, and her mouth resumed its expression of disdain. The young girl’s face slightly flushed.
“You will readily believe,” she continued, “that I did not go there with the intention of listening. But hearing my name, I stopped. It was wrong, I acknowledge, but I had no time for reflection. Pardon me, and forgive also,” she added in a more troubled tone, “the momentary displeasure Count George has caused you on my account.”
“Momentary!” repeated the princess in a cold, ironical tone.
“At least,” continued Fleurange, “you will find it only for an instant that this notion, this folly—in short, what you have just heard—will be serious enough to annoy or afflict you.”
“Gabrielle!”
“Allow me to continue, princess; you shall reply afterwards. My heart is so full of gratitude towards you—”
“Do not talk to me of your gratitude,” cried the princess, interrupting her, and breaking out anew. “It is precisely because I thought I had some claims on it that I feel so deeply wounded. After loving you so much, I am tempted to hate you. It is your perfidy, your ingratitude—”
“I am neither perfidious nor ungrateful,” said Fleurange, turning pale. “Allow me to prove I am not. I ask it even more for your own sake than for mine.”