As she sat there in the shadow, a blush crimsoned Helene’s face.  Had the Abbe, then, read her heart?  Was he aware of this restlessness which was fast possessing her—­this heart-trouble which thrilled her every-day life, and the existence of which she had till now been unwilling to admit?  Her needlework fell on her lap.  A sensation of weakness pervaded her, and she awaited from the priest something like a pious complicity which would allow her to confess and particularize the vague feelings which she buried in her innermost being.  As all was known to him, it was for him to question her, and she would strive to answer.

“I leave myself in your hands, my friend,” she murmured.  “You are well aware that I have always listened to you.”

The priest remained for a moment silent, and then slowly and solemnly said: 

“My child, you must marry again.”

She remained speechless, with arms dangling, in a stupor this counsel brought upon her.  She awaited other words, failing, as it were, to understand him.  And the Abbe continued putting before her the arguments which should incline her towards marriage.

“Remember, you are still young.  You must not remain longer in this out-of-the-way corner of Paris, scarcely daring to go out, and wholly ignorant of the world.  You must return to the every-day life of humanity, lest in the future you should bitterly regret your loneliness.  You yourself have no idea how the effects of your isolation are beginning to tell on you, but your friends remark your pallor, and feel uneasy.”

With each sentence he paused, in the hope that she might break in and discuss his proposition.  But no; she sat there as if lifeless, seemingly benumbed with astonishment.

“No doubt you have a child,” he resumed.  “That is always a delicate matter to surmount.  Still, you must admit that even in Jeanne’s interest a husband’s arm would be of great advantage.  Of course, we must find some one good and honorable, who would be a true father—­”

However, she did not let him finish.  With violent revolt and repulsion she suddenly spoke out:  “No, no; I will not!  Oh, my friend, how can you advise me thus?  Never, do you hear, never!”

Her whole heart was rising; she herself was frightened by the violence of her refusal.  The priest’s proposal had stirred up that dim nook in her being whose secret she avoided reading, and, by the pain she experienced, she at last understood all the gravity of her ailment.  With the open, smiling glance of the priest still bent on her, she plunged into contention.

“No, no; I do not wish it!  I love nobody!”

And, as he still gazed at her, she imagined he could read her lie on her face.  She blushed and stammered: 

“Remember, too, I only left off my mourning a fortnight ago.  No, it could not be!”

“My child!” quietly said the priest, “I thought over this a great deal before speaking.  I am sure your happiness is wrapped up in it.  Calm yourself; you need never act against your own wishes.”