But, alas! it
was plain that she did not care for him in the least, and that she never
would love him. His suffering was so great that he grew very pale and
could scarcely speak.
"But, Mademoiselle, will you not make up the mitre?"
"No, mother can do it so much better than I can. I am too happy at the
thought that I have nothing more to do with it."
"But do you not like the work which you do so well?"
"I? I do not like anything in the world."
Hubertine was obliged to speak to her sternly, and tell her to be quiet.
She then begged Felicien to be so good as to pardon her nervous child,
who was a little weary from her long-continued application. She
added that the mitre would be at his disposal at an early hour on the
following morning. It was the same as if she had asked him to go away,
but he could not leave. He stood and looked around him in this old
workroom, filled with shade and with peace, and it seemed to him as if
he were being driven from Paradise. He had spent so many sweet hours
there in the illusion of his brightest fancies, that it was like tearing
his very heart-strings to think all this was at an end. What troubled
him the worst was his inability to explain matters, and that he could
only take with him such a fearful uncertainty.
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