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This morning I got up at sunrise, it being the Annunciation of
the Virgin, and prepared to go to mass in the chapel of the
Ursulines. How peaceful was the world! So still, so still. The
smoke came curling up here and there through the sweet air of
spring, a snowbird tripped along the white coverlet of the earth,
and before a Calvary, I saw a peasant kneel and say an Ave as he
went to market. There was springtime in the sun, in the smell of
the air; springtime everywhere but in my heart, which was all
winter. I seemed alone--alone--alone. I felt the tears start. But
that was for a moment only, I am glad to say, for I got my courage
again, as I did the night before when Monsieur Doltaire placed his
arm at my waist, and poured into my ears a torrent of protestations.
I did not move at first. But I could feel my cheeks go to stone,
and something clamp my heart. Yet had ever man such hateful
eloquence! There is that in him--oh, shame! oh, shame!--which goes
far with a woman. He has the music of passion, and though it is
lower than love, it is the poetry of the senses.


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