“That is strange, for I never faint.” And she passed her hand over her forehead.
“O my God! I remember it all now,” she suddenly exclaimed. “But is it true? May not this be false—a mere idle tale?”
“Who can tell?” replied mademoiselle vaguely. “That is quite possible. They say so many things.”
“But tell me all you know.”
“No, no, not now, Gabrielle, not now. You are not able to hear it. Do as I say, and we will talk about it at another time.”
Fleurange made no reply. A moment after, she rose. “I am well now,” she said; “I feel revived.”
She gathered up her long hair, which had fallen around her shoulders, took the journal and put it in her pocket, then put on the little velvet hat trimmed with fur which she generally wore in winter, and said: “Thanks, dear mademoiselle, and pardon me. I have quite recovered, but do not feel equal, however, to the visits you expected me to make to-day.”
“No, indeed, of course not.”
“I must go home at once.”
“Yes, certainly, I am going with you. You must go to bed. You are generally pale, but now your cheeks are as red as those curtains,” pointing to the bright cotton curtains at the window.