“she is much too angelic to know desire or anything whatever about love; but she is engrossed by him, she thinks of him, she even resists it, but returns to it in spite of her determination to refrain.—She is at the piano—”
“But who is it?”
“The son of a lady who lives opposite—”
“Madame de Portenduère?”
“Portenduère, do you say?” rejoined the somnambulist, “I daresay. But there is no danger, he is not in the country.”
“Have they spoken to each other?” asked the doctor.
“Never. They have looked at each other. She thinks him charming. In fact, he is a handsome man and has a good heart. She has seen him from her window, they have also seen each other in church; but the young man thinks no more about it.”
“His name?”
“Ah! to tell you that, I must read it or hear it—He is called Savinien, she has just uttered his name; she finds it sweet to pronounce; she has already looked out his birthday in her almanac, she has put a little red dot against it—Such childishness! Oh! she will love well, but with as much purity as strength; she is not a girl to love twice, and love will tinge her soul and penetrate it so thoroughly that it will drive out every other feeling.”
“Where do you see that?”
“Within her. She will know how to suffer; she
