And, so saying, she mournfully betook herself away, leaving Julie a prey to all manner of vague and perplexing alarms.
Whatever was the cause of Lucille's profound mental agitation, it was an impenetrable mystery to Julie. Blassemare obviously did not know what to make of it; and as the fête drew near without eliciting any corresponding interest on her part, Julie, who had observed with pleasure the delight with which at first she had anticipated the event, was dismayed and astonished at the change. As often as she had endeavored to recall her to the topic so strangely approached, and inexplicably recoiled from, upon the occasion we have just described, Lucille repulsed her curiosity, or at least evaded it with entire and impenetrable secrecy. Finding, therefore, that the subject was obviously distasteful to her, she forbore to return to it, and contented herself with recording the broken conversation of the night in question among the other unexplained mysteries of her life.
"Well, Lucille," she said to her one day, as they were walking upon the terrace together, and interrupting by the remark a long and gloomy silence, "you do not seem to enjoy the prospect of the gay night which my uncle has prepared, now that it approaches, half so much as you did in the distance."
"Enjoy it? no, no."
"But you longed for such an occasion."
"Perhaps, Julie, I had reasons; perhaps it was not all caprice."
"But do you not still enjoy the prospect? surely it has not lost all its charms?"
"I say, Julie, I had reasons—that is, perhaps I had—for wishing it. I have none now."
"Well, but it seems to me it positively depresses you. Surely, if it were merely indifferent, it need not distress you."
"Ah, Julie, Julie, we are strange creatures; we know not ourselves, neither our strength nor our weakness, our good nor our evil, until time and combinations solve the problem, and show us the sad truth."