The ardor burning under this changeable surface, which, through some sudden cause, betrayed its presence, was so deeply hidden, however, that it seemed impossible to fathom it completely.

Was she a coquette, or simply a fashionable lady, or a devotee?
In one word, was she imbued with the most egotistical pride or the most exalted love?
One might suppose anything, but know nothing; one remained undecided and thoughtful, but fascinated, the mind plunged into ecstatic contemplation such as the portrait of Monna Lisa inspires.

An observer might have perceived that she had one of those hearts, so finely strung, from which a clever hand might make incomparable harmonies of passion gush; but perhaps he would be mistaken.

So many women have their souls only in their eyes! Madame de Bergenheim's revery rendered the mysterious and impenetrable veil which usually enveloped her countenance more unfathomable yet.

What sentiment made her bend her head and walk slowly as she meditated?
Was it the ennui of which she had just complained to her aunt?
Was it pure melancholy?
The monotonous ripple of the stream, the singing of the birds in the woods, the long golden reflections under the trees, all seemed to unite in filling the soul with sadness; but neither the murmuring water, the singing birds, nor the sun's splendor was paid any attention to by Madame de Bergenheim; she gave them neither a glance nor a sigh.