Silence fell. While answering, she had looked him frankly in the face; but a little quiver stirred her lips, and gloom, for which she could not account, seemed to rise and darken her face, usually as bright and gay as spring water. In former times would she not have laughed and sung at the mere announcement of that coming wedding? Then Guillaume, with an effort which made his voice tremble, dared to speak out: "You must forgive me for asking you a question, my dear Marie. There is still time for you to cancel your promise. Are you quite certain that you love me?" At this she looked at him in genuine stupefaction, utterly failing to understand what he could be aiming at. And--as she seemed to be deferring her reply, he added: "Consult your heart. Is it really your old friend or is it another that you love?" "I? I, Guillaume? Why do you say that to me? What can I have done to give you occasion to say such a thing!" All her frank nature revolted as she spoke, and her beautiful eyes, glowing with sincerity, gazed fixedly on his. "I love Pierre! I do, I? . . . Well, yes, I love him, as I love you all; I love him because he has become one of us, because he shares our life and our joys! I'm happy when he's here, certainly; and I should like him to be always here. I'm always pleased to see him and hear him and go out with him. I was very much grieved recently when he seemed to be relapsing into his gloomy ideas. But all that is natural, is it not? And I think that I have only done what you desired I should do, and I cannot understand how my affection for Pierre can in any way exercise an influence respecting our marriage." These words, in her estimation, ought to have convinced Guillaume that she was not in love with his brother; but in lieu thereof they brought him painful enlightenment by the very ardour with which she denied the love imputed to her. "But you unfortunate girl!" he cried. "You are betraying yourself without knowing it. . . . It is quite certain you do not love me, you love my brother!" He had caught hold of her wrists and was pressing them with despairing affection as if to compel her to read her heart. And she continued struggling. A most loving and tragic contest went on between them, he seeking to convince her by the evidence of facts, and she resisting him, stubbornly refusing to open her eyes. In vain did he recount what had happened since the first day, explaining the feelings which had followed one upon another in her heart and mind: first covert hostility, next curiosity regarding that extraordinary young priest, and then sympathy and affection when she had found him so wretched and had gradually cured him of his sufferings. They were both young and mother Nature had done the rest. However, at each fresh proof and certainty which he put before her, Marie only experienced growing emotion, trembling at last from head to foot, but still unwilling to question herself.