ly, he added: "Consult your heart. Is it really your old friend or
is it another that you love?"

"I? I, Guillaume? Why do you say that to me? What can I have done to give
you occasion to say such a thing!"

All her frank nature revolted as she spoke, and her beautiful eyes,
glowing with sincerity, gazed fixedly on his.

"I love Pierre! I do, I?... Well, yes, I love him, as I love you all;
I love him because he has become one of us, because he shares our life
and our joys! I'm happy when he's here, certainly; and I should like him
to be always here. I'm always pleased to see him and hear him and go out
with him. I was very much grieved recently when he seemed to be relapsing
into his gloomy ideas. But all that is natural, is it not? And I think
that I have only done what you desired I should do, and I cannot
understand how my affection for Pierre can in any way exercise an
influence respecting our marriage."

These words, in her estimation, ought to have convinced Guillaume that
she was not in love with his brother; but in lieu thereof they brought
him painful enlightenment by the very ardour with which she denied the
love imputed to her.

"But you unfortunate girl!" he cried. "You are betraying yourself without
knowing it.... It is quite certain you do not love me, you love my
brother!"

He had caught hold of her wrists and was pressing them with despairing
affection as if to compel her to read her heart. And she continued
struggling. A most loving and tragic contest went on between them, he
seeking to convince her by the evidence of facts, and she resisting him,
stubbornly refusing to open her eyes. In vain did he recount what had
happened since the first day, explaining the feelings which had followed
one upon another in her heart and mind: first covert hostility, next
curiosity regarding that extraordinary young priest, and then sympathy
and affection when she had found him so wretched and had gradually cured
him of his sufferings. They were both young and mother Nature had done
the rest. However, at each fresh proof and certainty which he put before
her, Marie only experienced growing emotion, trembling at last from head
to foot, but still unwilling to question herself.

"No, no," said she, "I do not love him. If I loved him I should know it
and would acknowledge it to you; for you are well aware that I cannot
tell an untruth."

Guillaume, however, had the cruelty to insist on the point, like some
heroic