mboldened.

She spoke of love as the son of a painter or a musician would, at
the age of ten or twelve years, speak of painting or music. She knew
or rather suspected very well what sort of mystery this word
concealed;--too many jokes had been whispered before her, for her
innocence not to be a trifle enlightened,--but how could she have
drawn the conclusion from all this, that all families did not
resemble hers?

They kissed her mother's hand with the semblance of respect; all
their friends had titles; they all were rich or seemed to be so;
they all spoke familiarly of the princes of the royal line. Two sons
of kings had even come often, in the evening, to the Marquise's
house. How should she have known?

And, then, she was naturally artless. She did not estimate or sum up
people as her mother, did. She lived tranquilly, too joyous in her
life to worry herself about what might appear suspicious to
creatures more calm, thoughtful, reserved, less cordial, and sunny.

But now, all at once, Servigny, by a few words, the brutality of
which she felt without understanding them, awakened in her a sudden
disquietude, unreasoning at first, but which grew into a tormenting
apprehension. She had fled home, had escaped like a wounded animal,
wounded in fact most deeply by those words which she ceaselessly
repeated to get all their sense and bearing: "You know very well
that there can be no question of marriage between us--but only of
love."

What did he mean? And why this insult? Was she then in ignorance of
something, some secret, some shame? She was the only one ignorant of
it, no doubt. But what could she do? She was frightened, startled,
as a person is when he discovers some hidden infamy, some treason of
a beloved friend, one of those heart-disasters which crush.

She dreamed, reflected, puzzled, wept, consumed by fears and
suspicions. Then her joyous young soul reassuring itself, she began
to plan an adventure, to imagine an abnormal and dramatic situation,
founded on the recollections of all the poetical romances she had
read. She recalled all the moving catastrophes, or sad and touching
stories; she jumbled them together, and concocted a story of her own
with which she interpreted the half-understood mystery which
enveloped her life.

She was no longer cast down. She dreamed, she lifted veils, she
imagined unlikely complications, a thousand singular, terrible
things, seductive, nevertheless, by their very strangen