"
"On Sundays we will go into the country, oh very far away, into the woods
where there are beautiful trees. And we will sometimes go to the theatre,
too, if papa will take us. I have been told that there are many plays
that one may see. But, after all, it's not all that. Provided I can go
out and walk in the streets and see things, I shall be so happy; I shall
come home so gay. It is so nice to live, is it not, Pierre?"
"Yes, yes, Marie, it is very nice."
A chill like that of death was coming over him; his regret that he was no
longer a man was filling him with agony. But since she tempted him like
this with her irritating candour, why should he not confess to her the
truth which was ravaging his being? He would have won her, have conquered
her. Never had a more frightful struggle arisen between his heart and his
will. For a moment he was on the point of uttering irrevocable words.
But with the voice of a joyous child she was already resuming: "Oh! look
at poor papa; how pleased he must be to sleep so soundly!"
On the seat in front of them M. de Guersaint was indeed slumbering with a
comfortable expression on his face, as though he were in his bed, and had
no consciousness of the continual jolting of the train. This monotonous
rolling and heaving seemed, in fact, a lullaby rocking the whole carriage
to sleep. All surrendered themselves to it, sinking powerless on to the
piles of bags and parcels, many of which had also fallen; and the
rhythmical growling of the wheels never ceased in the unknown darkness
through which the train was still rolling.
Pages:
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720