When he had thoroughly kissed the right side, she offered him the left; then, giving her lips to him frankly, she received his kiss, returned it with all her heart, and got up.
She smiled without any embarrassment. She was happy and very little disturbed.
"There," she said to herself. "Now I'm married."
The paths were now visible. One of them, in front of the house, made an oval round a lawn, which looked, at the moment, like a patch of weeds, with all sorts of flowers in the uneven grass--buttercups, moon-daisies, cranes-bill and centaury; there were rushes, too, and nettles, hemlock and plants of lingwort that looked like long thin girls in white hats.
Encoignard, the gardener from Valognes, was contemplating this wildness with a melancholy eye:
"It will have to be ploughed, M. Des Boys, or at least well hoed. Then we'll sift the earth we've broken up, level it down and sow ray-grass. In two years it will be like a carpet of green velvet."
"Lime trees! You ought to have a segoya here and over there an araucaria. And what's that? An apple-tree. That's quite wrong. We'll have that up and put a magnolia grandiflora there. You want an English garden, don't you? An English garden oughtn't to contain anything but exotic plants. Lilacs and roses.... Why not snow-ball trees? Ah, there's a nice spotted holly. We might use that perhaps."
"I don't want anyone to touch my trees," said Rose, who had drawn near.
"Think of pulling up lilacs," Rose went on, "pulling up rose-trees."
"But I mean to put prettier flowers in their place, Mademoiselle."
"The prettiest flowers are the ones I like best."
She picked a red rose and put it to her lips, kissing it as though it were something sacred and adored.
M. Des Boys looked at his daughter with astonishment.
"Well, M. Encoignard, we must do what she wants. Hervart, what do you think about it?"
"I think that one ought to leave nature as unkempt as possible. I also think that one ought to love the plants of the country where one lives. They are the only ones that harmonise with the sky and the crops, with the colour of the rivers and roads and roofs."
"Xavier, I love you," Rose whispered, taking M. Hervart's arm.
The inspection of the garden was continued, and it was decided that M. Encoignard's collaboration should be reduced to the ordinary functions of a plain docile gardener. One or two new plants were admitted on condition that the old should be respected.