grace into his movements—well, I thought him handsome. He combed his black moustache, the point under his chin, and I saw his white, round neck—Must I tell you everything?—I noticed that this fresh neck, this face and this beautiful black hair were very different from yours, when I used to see you shaving. A surging vapor, from where I do not know, rose in my heart, in my throat, in my head, and so violently that I sat down. I could not stand upright, I trembled. But I so much wanted to see him, that I stood on tiptoe; he then saw me, and, in fun, sent me a kiss with the tips of his fingers, and—”
“And—?”
“And,” she resumed, “I hid myself, as much ashamed as I was happy, without being able to account for my shame in this happiness. This movement, which intoxicated my soul whilst causing I know not what power, is renewed every time that I see this young face again in my mind’s eye. At last I used to delight in recognizing this emotion, however violent it might be. Whilst going to mass, an unconquerable force urged me to look at Monsieur Savinien giving his arm to his mother; his bearing, his clothes, everything, even to the sound of his boots on the pavement, seemed to me desirable. The least thing about him, his hand, so delicately gloved, influenced me like a spell. Nevertheless, I had the strength not to think of him during mass. At the end of the service, I remained in the church in such a way as to allow Madame de Portenduère
