Presently someone touched her shoulder very gently. It was Felicite.
"What is it, my dear?" the elder woman asked. "What has happened?"
And Brigit, too unstrung to tell the usual conventional lies, simply
sobbed on, her whole body shaking with agony.
Madame Joyselle sat patiently by her, stroking her shoulders with a kind
hand, murmuring little broken phrases in French, patting her hair.
"_Oui, oui, ma mie--Pauvre petite, ca te soulagera--Pleures, ma cocotte,
pleures!_"
And at last the girl was quiet, and reached for her handkerchief.
"I--I am sorry to have been so idiotic, I don't know why I am such a
fool----"
Felicite smoothed back her wet hair and smiled at her.
"Poor child," she answered quietly. "I am so sorry. I have seen it for
some time----"
Brigit stared at her.
"Seen--?"
"That you have fallen in love with Victor. It is really too bad of him,
the old rascal."
Her gentle face was so undisturbed, so calmly acceptant of the heinous
fact that Brigit could do nothing but stare. "I am glad poor Theo does
not suspect," went on Felicite, untying the strings of her old-fashioned
bonnet, "we must not let him know, _n'est ce pas_?"
"I--I don't see----" stammered the girl, blankly.
Pages:
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240