If it was only a lover! But the pretty pastellist has been very careless, more foolish than the old maid or the two young fellows dream of. It is so sweet to hear him say: “I love you!” and so delicious to listen for the question: “And you, do you love me a little?” when she is dying to say, “Yes!” Bending her head and blushing with confusion under Maurice’s ardent gaze, the pretty Maria ends by murmuring the fatal “Yes.” Then she sees Maurice turn pale with joy, and he says to her, “I must talk to you alone; not before these bores.” She replies: “But how? It is impossible!” Then he asks whether she does not trust him, whether she does not believe him to be an honest man, and the young girl’s looks say more than any protestation would.
“Well! to-morrow morning at ten o’clock--instead of coming to the Louvre--will you? I will wait for you on the Quai d’Orsay, before the Saint-Cloud pier.”
She was there at the appointed hour, overwhelmed with emotion and ready to faint. He took her by the arm and led her aboard the boat.
“Do you see, now we are almost alone. Give me the pleasure of wandering through the fields with you. It is such beautiful weather. Be tranquil, we shall return early.”
Oh, the happy day! Maria sees pass before her, as she is seated beside Maurice, who is whispering in her ear loving words and whose glances cover her with caresses, as if in a dream, views of Paris that were not familiar to her, high walls, arches of bridges, then the bare suburbs, the smoking manufactories of Grenelle, the Bas Meudon, with its boats and public-houses. At last, on the borders of the stream, the park with its extensive verdure appeared.
They wandered there for a long time under the chestnut-trees, loaded with their fruit in its green shells. The sun, filtering through the foliage, dotted the walks with patches of light, and Maurice continued to repeat to Maria that he loved her; that he had never loved any one but her! that he had loved her from the very first time that he saw her at Pere Gerard’s, and that neither time nor absence had been able to drive away the remembrance of her. And at this moment he imagined that it was true. He did not think that he was telling a lie. As to poor Maria, do not be too severe upon her! think of her youth, her poverty and imprisonment--she was overwhelmed with happiness. She could think of nothing to say, and, giving herself up into the young man’s arms, she had hardly the strength to turn upon him, from time to time, her eyes tortured with love.