Marguerite, with a sigh
that was almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to
her room, for suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy.
Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and,
though it still ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious
hope soothed it as with a balm.
She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man who had just
ridden away, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete
confidence in his strength and in his power. She marvelled at herself
for having ever looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, THAT was
a mask worn to hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and
to his love. His passion would have overmastered him, and he would
not let her see how much he still cared and how deeply he suffered.
But now all would be well: she would crush her own pride,
humble it before him, tell him everything, trust him in everything;
and those happy days would come back, when they used to wander off
together in the forests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little--for
he was always a silent man--but when she felt that against that strong
heart she would always find rest and happiness.
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