"
Francoise Cathelineau dropped from her hand the flax, which she had
hitherto employed herself in preparing for the wheel, and pushing from
her forehead her loose grey locks, and resting on her knees her two
elbows, she gazed long and intently into Agatha's face.
"It is just the face he would have loved," said she aloud, yet speaking
to herself. "Yes, it is the face of which he used to dream and
talk--pale and sad, but very fair: and though I used to bid him mind his
work, and bring down his heart to love some poor honest labouring girl,
I did not the less often think over his strange fancies. And Jacques
told you that he loved you, did he, Mademoiselle? I wonder at that--I
wonder at that; it would have been more like himself to have carried his
love a secret to the grave."
"He was dying when he told me that he regarded me above other women; and
I am prouder of the dying hero's love, than I could have been had a
Prince knelt at my feet."
"He was dying when he confessed his love! Yes, I understand it now:
death will open the lips and bring forth the truth, when the dearest
hopes of life, when the sharpest pang of the heart fail to do so.
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