On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me--my heart seemed discovered to them: I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously certain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why and for whom I despaired.
"Isabelle," the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approached me. Would she, too, mock me!
"Que vous êtes pâle! Vous êtes donc bien malade, Mademoiselle!" said she, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful stupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the keenest intelligence.
Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recommendation of ignorance: before the day was over, I gathered cause of gratitude towards the whole blind household. The multitude have something else to do than to read hearts and interpret dark sayings. Who wills, may keep his own counsel--be his own secret's sovereign. In the course of that day, proof met me on proof, not only that the cause of my present sorrow was unguessed, but that my whole inner life for the last six months, was still mine only. It was not known--it had not been noted--that I held in peculiar value one life among all lives. Gossip had passed me by; curiosity had looked me over; both subtle influences, hovering always round, had never become centred upon me. A given organization may live in a full fever-hospital, and escape typhus. M. Emanuel had come and gone: I had been taught and sought; in season and out of season he had called me, and I had obeyed him: "M. Paul wants Miss Lucy"--"Miss Lucy is with M. Paul"--such had been the perpetual bulletin; and nobody commented, far less condemned. Nobody hinted, nobody jested. Madame Beck read the riddle: none else resolved it. What I now suffered was called illness--a headache: I accepted the baptism.
But what bodily illness was ever like this pain? This certainty that he was gone without a farewell--this cruel conviction that fate and pursuing furies--a woman's envy and a priest's bigotry--would suffer me to see him no more? What wonder that the second evening found me like the first--untamed, tortured, again pacing a solitary room in an unalterable passion of silent desolation?
Madame Beck did not herself summon me to bed that night--she did not come near me: she sent Ginevra Fanshawe--a more efficient agent for the purpose she could not have employed. Ginevra's first words--"Is your headache very bad to-night?" (for Ginevra, like the rest, thought I had a headache--an intolerable headache which made me frightfully white in the face, and insanely restless in the foot)--her first words, I say, inspired the impulse to flee anywhere, so that it were only out of reach. And soon, what followed--plaints about her own headaches--completed the business.