The blood mounted to her face, and exquisitely coloured her cheeks, as she heard again the sweet, yet appalling words, "I love you"; and she reasoned no longer, but sobbed again, doubting evident facts, fearing the commission of a fault in the beyond--in that which had neither name nor form.
But that which especially distressed her now was that she had not made a _confidante_ of Hubertine.

Could she only have asked her what she wished to know, no doubt the latter with a word would have explained the whole mystery to her.

Then it seemed to her as if the mere fact of speaking to someone of her trouble would have cured her.

But the secret had become too weighty; to reveal it would be more than she could bear, for the shame would be too great.

She became quite artful for the moment, affected an air of calmness, when in the depths of her soul a tempest was raging.