in which there was much amorous art, drank in her soul.
When he lifted his head, he felt confused:
"I have been giving the kiss of a happy lover, when what was asked for was a betrothal kiss. What will she think of me?"
Rose was already looking at the rustic table. When M. Hervart rejoined her, she greeted him with the sweetest of smiles.
"Was that what she wanted then?" M. Hervart wondered.
"Rose," he said aloud, "I love you, I love you."
"I hope you do," she replied.
"Oh, how I should like to be alone with you now!"
"I wouldn't. I should be afraid."
This answer set M. Hervart thinking: "Does she know as much about it as all that? Is it an invitation?"
His thought lost itself in a tangle of vain desires. But for the very reason that the moment was not propitious, he let himself go among the most audacious fancies. His eyes wandered towards the dark wood, as though in search of some favourable retreat. He made
