Now and again, as they passed
through a station or under a bridge, there would be a loud rush of wind,
a tempest would suddenly sweep by; and then the lulling, growling sound
would begin again, ever the same for hours together.
Marie gently took hold of Pierre's hands; he and she were so lost, so
completely alone among all those prostrated beings, in the deep, rumbling
peacefulness of the train flying across the black night. And sadness, the
sadness which she had hitherto hidden, had again come back to her,
casting a shadow over her large blue eyes.
"You will often come with us, my good Pierre, won't you?" she asked.
He had started on feeling her little hand pressing his own. His heart was
on his lips, he was making up his mind to speak. However, he once again
restrained himself and stammered: "I am not always at liberty, Marie; a
priest cannot go everywhere."
"A priest?" she repeated. "Yes, yes, a priest. I understand."
Then it was she who spoke, who confessed the mortal secret which had been
oppressing her heart ever since they had started. She leant nearer, and
in a lower voice resumed: "Listen, my good Pierre; I am fearfully sad. I
may look pleased, but there is death in my soul. You did not tell me the
truth yesterday."
He became quite scared, but did not at first understand her. "I did not
tell you the truth--About what?" he asked.
A kind of shame restrained her, and she again hesitated at the moment of
descending into the depths of another conscience than her own.
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