The next day, meeting Mlle. de Verteuil in the library, I asked her to tell me the meaning of those words which had, the day before, made such an impression on Hélène. After hesitating a long time, she ended by avowing that, when at the convent, Hélène had every year celebrated my fête with childish solemnity. The preparations consisted in buying a great bouquet of flowers, that she tied up with a fine ribbon, on which she had mysteriously embroidered the initials of my name; after which she would place the bouquet in an old marble vase, which stood in a lonely corner of the convent garden; here she would spend the hours of her recreation in prayer before her shrine, begging God to grant me a prosperous voyage. Mlle. de Verteuil never tired in telling me of Hélène's terror of being surprised whilst embroidering the ribbon, and of her thousand and one attempts (sometimes unsuccessful) to procure a fine enough bunch of flowers. How can I tell how it came about that these childish doings told so simply by Mlle. de Verteuil filled me with delighted surprise and touched me to the heart? For before starting on my voyage, during a short visit that Hélène made to Serval, I had never considered her as anything but a child. From the evening when I had, by accident, felt her hand under mine, Hélène appeared to avoid me; her habitual taciturnity became greater; her manner, until then sweet and equable, became brusque; she would remain for hours shut up in her own room with the blinds closed in perfect obscurity. I was very unhappy myself; I was restless and preoccupied; I believed that an avowal on my part was all that was wanting to render Hélène calm and happy; but a timidity which I was not able to overcome sealed my lips to such a declaration. One evening, however, when Hélène was less dejected and less sad than usual, I went with her for a horseback ride. I vowed to myself that I would have the courage to tell her of my love,--I would tell it as soon as we were riding in the great avenue of oaks I have spoken about. We arrived there,--my heart beat fearfully, but I dared not speak. Ashamed and mortified, I came to a new decision, and I told myself that the marble temple at the end of the avenue should be the place where I would make a second attempt. When we arrived there, I became dizzy, my heart seemed to stop beating, I could only say in a choking voice, "Hélène!" then I became dumb. She turned her great moist eyes on me; she appeared paler than usual; her bosom heaved; she looked at me as though her gaze would penetrate the depths of my heart. "Oh, Hélène!" I began again, and I know not what insurmountable timidity prevented me from saying a single word more. She then, with a look of grief and despair I can never forget, cried out, "Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable always!"