“Let us speak only of you, Marianne,” said the minister, who looked at the young woman with a sort of frank compassion as a friendly physician looks at a sick person.

She nervously snapped her fingers and with her feet crossed, beat the little feverish march that she had previously done.

He drew still closer to her, trying to calm her and to obtain some explanation, some information from her; and Marianne, as if she had already yielded in at once confiding her secret unreflectingly, refused at present to accord him the full measure of her confidence.  She repeated that nothing that could be a source of annoyance or sordid, ought to sadden her friends.  Besides, one ought to draw the line at one’s life-secret.  She was entitled, in fact, to maintain silence.  That Vaudrey should question her so, caused her horrible suffering.

“And you, Marianne,” he said, “you torture me much more by not replying to me, to whom the least detail of your life is interesting.  To me who see you preoccupied and distressed, when I wish, I swear to you, to banish all your sadness.”

She turned toward him with an abrupt movement and with her gray, gold-speckled eyes flashing, she seemed to yield to a violent, sudden and almost involuntary decision and said to Sulpice: 

“Then you wish to know even the wretchedness of my life?  So be it!  But I warn you that it is not very cheerful.  For,” said she, after a moment’s silence,—­Sulpice shuddered under her glance,—­“it is better to be frank, and if you love me as you say you do, you should know me thoroughly; you can then decide what course to take.  For myself, I am accustomed to deception.”

Ah! although this woman were ready to tell him everything, Vaudrey felt sure that her confidence could only intensify the love that he felt.  She had risen, her arms were crossed over her black gown whose red velvet trimming suggested open wounds, her ardent eyes were in strong contrast with her pale face, her lips of unusually heightened color expressed a strange sensuality that invited a kiss, while her nostrils dilated under the impulse of bitter anger—­standing thus, she began to narrate her life to Vaudrey who was seated in front of her, looking up to her—­as if at her knees.  Her story was a sad one of a wicked childhood, ignorant youth, wasted early years, melancholy, sins, outbursts of faith, falls, returns of love, pride, virtue, restitution through repentance, scourged hopes, dead confidences, the entire heartrending existence of a woman who had left more of her heart than of the flesh of her body clinging to the nails of her calvaries:—­all, though ordinary and commonplace, was so cruel in its truth that it appealed at once to Sulpice’s heart, a heart bursting with pity, to that credulous man who was attracted by all that seemed to him so exquisitely painful and new about this woman.

“Perhaps I am worrying you?” she asked abruptly.

“You!” said he.