Madelon rose gently, kissed the honest, rosy, freckled
face; and then, as if drawn by some invincible attraction,
went back to the window.
Yes; they were still there, those two, not walking up and down
now, but standing under the big tree at the end of the lawn
still talking, as she could see by their gestures. "Ah, how
happy they are!" thinks our Madelon again, forgetting the
scene of the afternoon, her doubts, her half-formed
suspicions--how happy they must be, Monsieur Horace, who loves
Maria, Maria who is loved by Monsieur Horace, whilst she--why,
it is she who loves Monsieur Horace, who has loved him since
he rescued her, a little child, from loneliness and despair--
she, who for all these years has had but one thought, Monsieur
Horace, one object, Monsieur Horace, and who sees herself now
shut out from such a bright, gleaming paradise, into such
shivering outer darkness. Ah, she loved him--she loved him--she
owned it to herself now, with a sudden burst of passion--and he
was going away; he had no thought of her; his path in life lay
along one road, and hers along another--a road how blank, how
dreary, wrapped in what grey, unswerving mists.
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