At this, Fleurange turned around with a smile. “Open! my dear mademoiselle? We should not be alive long, clad as we are.”
“I really do not understand why I do not feel the cold, and yet—”
Fleurange motioned for her to approach (for the old lady still kept at a respectful distance from the dangerous openings), and made her touch the thick glass, one pane of which composed the window—a luxury at that time peculiar to St. Petersburg, and which often deceived eyes more experienced than those of the simple Josephine. Reassured, but more and more amazed, she remained beside Fleurange at the window, profiting by the occasion to ask all the questions hitherto repressed. Everything was gradually explained to her, and she comprehended that [pg 471] this magnificent house belonged to Count George's mother.
“And he?” she ventured to say when Fleurange had answered all the questions,—“he, Gabrielle, where is he?”
“He!” repeated Fleurange, as a flush rose to her cheeks and her eyes filled with tears—“he is there: there, mademoiselle, within the walls of the fortress before us!”
Poor Josephine started with surprise. “Pardon me!” said she. “If I had known that, I should not have mentioned him.”
“Why, mademoiselle?—The sight of those walls does not make me afraid! On the contrary, I long to enter them. I long to leave all this splendor which separates me from him as it did before! O my dear friend! you must not pity me the day I am united to him!”
The language of passion always had a strange effect on this elderly maiden, but she only allowed herself to reply meekly:
“Well, my dear child, we will not pity you! It is Clement and I who will need pity when that day comes, and you must not be vexed if—” And in spite of herself, great tears filled her eyes, which she promptly wiped away.
She remained silent for some moments, then spoke of something else, feeling if she resumed the subject it would speedily lead to an explosion of grief which she resolved to restrain that she might not afflict her young friend.