My aunt had spoken of my father; this remembrance saddened us all, though in different ways: my aunt remembered that she had lost a much loved brother; Madame de Verteuil, in thinking upon his death, remembered the state of her daughter's health, and the sad fate which probably menaced her; while I was once more overcome with shame of my guilty forgetfulness. We were soon all perfectly silent; I was seated beside Hélène, my head on my hands. I know not why, but I began to reproach myself for the display I was already beginning to make. I experienced a puerile remorse in thinking how, instead of taking our drive in the great heavy carriage that had belonged to my father, with his faithful old servants seated on the box, I had been riding in a light, elegant, modern turnout, with foreigners seated on the backs of my horses. Certainly nothing could be sillier or more inane than such ideas, and yet they affected me quite painfully. After some time passed in reflection, I let my hand fall on to the arm of my chair, and found that I had placed it on the hand of Hélène; I blushed, and my heart began to beat strangely. When Hélène felt my hand, hers became suddenly cold, as though all the blood in her veins had rushed towards her heart. I dared neither take away my hand nor press hers, which I could feel growing warmer and warmer until presently it became burning hot. By the nervous trembling of her beautiful arm I could count the throbbing of her breast. I was entirely overcome and was filled with both unutterable joy and sadness. Oh, ingenuous serenity of first emotion, what can ever replace thee! Oh, spring, so pure at thy source! How delicious is thy cool freshness when murmuring peacefully along, furtive and undiscovered, under the tufts of green leaves; but, alas! how soon does all this charm vanish when, coming boldly out of the shade and reflecting alike every shore, the current of thy troubled waters is soiled by the débris they carry along. I loved Hélène passionately, I idolised her, and yet, I had not dared as yet to make her an avowal of my love. One day when we were out walking with Mlle. de Verteuil, who had been at the convent school with Hélène, we began by I know not what chance to speak of anniversaries and fêtes; suddenly Sophie de Verteuil exclaimed, as she looked towards me: "Do you remember, Hélène, our great excitement when we were little girls and celebrated _his_ fête?" Hélène blushed scarlet, and, with a shrug, replied to her friend, "I don't understand you." The poor child said no more, and we came back home quite soberly.