t 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. If asked why she was so pre-occupied, she lifted her
eyes with a look of surprise as she replied that she was thinking of
something. Seated before the working-frame, her hands mechanically
drawing the needle back and forth, very quiet to all outward appearance,
she was, from morning till evening, distracted by one thought. To be
loved! To be loved! And for herself, on her side, was she in love? This
was still an obscure question, to which, in her inexperience, she found
no answer. She repeated it so constantly that at last it made her giddy,
the words lost all their usual meaning, and everything seemed to be in a
whirl, which carried her away. With an effort she recovered herself, and
realised that, with needle in hand, she was still embroidering with her
accustomed application, although mechanically, as if in a half-dream.
Perhaps these strange symptoms were a sign that she was about to have a
severe illness. One evening she had such an attack of shivering when she
went to bed that she thought she would never be able to recover from it.
That idea was at the same time both cruel and sweet. She suffered from
it as if it were too great a joy. Even the next day her heart beat as if
it would break, and her ears were filled with a singing sound, like the
ringing of a distant bell. What could it mean? Was she in love, or was
she about to die? Thinking thus, she smiled sweetly at Hubertine, who,
in the act of waxing her thread, was looking at her anxiously.

Moreover, Angelique had made a vow that she would never again see
Felicien. She no longer ran the risk of meeting him among the brambles
and wild grasses in the Clos-Marie, and she had even given up her
daily visits to the poor. Her fear was intense lest, were they to find
themselves face to face, something terrible might come to pass. In her
resolution there was mingled, besides a feeling of penitence, a wish to
punish herself for some fault she might unintentionally have committed.
So, in her days of rigid humiliation, she condemned herself not even to
glance once through the window, so sure was she of seeing on the banks
of the Chevrotte the one whom she dreaded. But, after a while, being
sorely tempted, she looked out, and if it chan