She replied, in panting tones: "Ought I to have told you that? I feel I
am guilty and contemptible. I, who have two daughters, but I cannot help
it, I cannot help it. I could not have believed, I should never have
thought--but it is stronger than I. Listen, listen: I have never loved
anyone but you; I swear it. And I have loved you for a year past in
secret, in my secret heart. Oh! I have suffered and struggled till I can
do so no more. I love you."
She was weeping, with her hands crossed in front of her face, and her
whole frame was quivering, shaken by the violence of her emotion.
George murmured: "Give me your hand, that I may touch it, that I may
press it."
She slowly withdrew her hand from her face. He saw her cheek quite wet
and a tear ready to fall on her lashes. He had taken her hand and was
pressing it, saying: "Oh, how I should like to drink your tears!"
She said, in a low and broken voice, which resembled a moan: "Do not
take advantage of me; I am lost."
He felt an impulse to smile. How could he take advantage of her in that
place? He placed the hand he held upon his heart, saying: "Do you feel
it beat?" For he had come to the end of his passionate phrases.
For some moments past the regular footsteps of the promenader had been
coming nearer. He had gone the round of the altars, and was now, for the
second time at least, coming down the little aisle on the right. When
Madame Walter heard him close to the pillar which hid her, she snatched
her fingers from George's grasp, and again hid her face. And both
remained motionless, kneeling as though they had been addressing fervent
supplications to heaven together. The stout gentleman passed close to
them, cast an indifferent look upon them, and walked away to the lower
end of the church, still holding his hat behind his back.
Du Roy, who was thinking of obtaining an appointment elsewhere than at
the Church of the Trinity, murmured: "Where shall I see you to-morrow?"
She did not answer. She seemed lifeless--turned into a statue of prayer.
He went on: "To-morrow, will you let me meet you in the Parc Monseau?"
She turned towards him her again uncovered face, a livid face,
contracted by fearful suffering, and in a jerky voice ejaculated: "Leave
me, leave me now; go away, go away, only for five minutes! I suffer too
much beside you. I want to pray, and I cannot. Go away, let me pray
alone for five minutes. I cannot. Let me implore God to pardon me--to
save me. Leave me for five minutes."
Her face was so upset, so full of pain, that he rose without saying a
word, and then, after a little hesitation, asked: "Shall I come back
presently?"
She gave a nod, which meant, "Yes, presently," and he walked away
towards the choir. Then she strove to pray. She made a superhuman effort
to invoke the Deity, and with quivering frame and bewildering soul
appealed for mercy to heaven. She closed her eyes with rage, in order no
longer to see him who just left her. She sought to drive him from her
mind, she struggled against him, but instead of the celestial apparition
awaited in the distress of her heart, she still perceived the young
fellow's curly moustache. For a year past she had been struggling thus
every day, every night, against the growing possession, against this
image which haunted her dreams, haunted her flesh, and disturbed her
nights. She felt caught like a beast in a net, bound, thrown into the
arms of this man, who had vanquished, conquered her, simply by the hair
on his lip and the color of his eyes. And now in this church, close to
God, she felt still weaker, more abandoned, and more lost than at home.
She could no longer pray, she could only think of him. She suffered
already that he had quitted her. She struggled, however, despairingly,
resisted, implored help with all the strength of her soul. She would
liked to have died rather than fall thus, she who had never faltered in
her duty. She murmured wild words of supplication, but she was listening
to George's footsteps dying away in the distance.
She understood that it was all over, that the struggle was a useless
one. She would not yield, however; and she was seized by one of those
nervous crises that hurl women quivering, yelling, and writhing on the
ground. She trembled in every limb, feeling that she was going to fall
and roll among the chairs, uttering shrill cries. Someone approached
with rapid steps. It was a priest. She rose and rushed towards him,
holding out her clasped hands, and stammering: "Oh! save me, save me!"