He felt as if he dared not do anything. Hermione in her grief, had
suddenly passed from him into a darkness that was sacred. What right
had he to try to share it?
And yet--if that great shape of fear were not the body of a lie, but
of the truth?
Never had he felt so impotent, so utterly unworthy of his manhood.
He moved away, turned, came back and stood once more beneath the
window. Ought he to go up to Hermione's door, to knock, to speak, to
insist on admittance? And if there was no reply?--what ought he to do
then? Break down the door?
He went into the house. Vere was sitting in the drawing-room looking
at the door. She sprang up.
"Is there a light in Madre's room?"
"No."
He saw, as he answered, that she caught his fear, that hers now had
the same shape as his.
"Monsieur Emile, you--you don't think--?"
Her voice faltered, her bright eyes became changed, dim, seemed to
sink into her head.
"You must go to her room. Go to Madre, Monsieur Emile, Go! Speak to
her! Make her answer! Make her! make her!"
She put her hands on him.
Pages:
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908