no repetition of, no allusion to, that fiery passage.
That night passed: all nights—even the starless night before dissolution—must wear away. About six o'clock, the hour which called up the household, I went out to the court, and washed my face in its cold, fresh, well-water. Entering by the carré, a piece of mirror-glass, set in an oaken cabinet, repeated my image. It said I was changed; my cheeks and lips were sodden-white, my eyes were glassy, and my eye-lids swollen and purple.
On rejoining my companions, I knew they all looked at me—my heart seemed discovered to them; I believed myself self-betrayed. Hideously certain did it seem that the very youngest of the school must guess why and for whom I despaired.
"Isabelle," the child whom I had once nursed in sickness, approached me. Would she, too, mock me?
"Que vous êtes pâle! Vous êtes donc bien malade, mademoiselle!" said she, putting her finger in her mouth, and staring with a wistful stupidity which at the moment seemed to me more beautiful than the keenest intelligence.
Isabelle did not long stand alone in the recom-
