While he was alone, M. Hervart had done his best to make a decision,
as he had promised himself to do; but decisions had fluttered like
capricious butterflies round his head and would not let themselves be
caught. He was neither surprised nor vexed at the fact.
"Rose," he said to himself at last, "will do all I want."
This certitude was enough for him. The moment he had a will, Rose would
acquiesce.
"Provided my will agrees with hers, that's obvious. Now Rose's wish is
to become Mme. Hervart. Dear little thing, she's in love with me...."
He dwelt complacently on this idea, but a moment later it alarmed him
and he felt himself a prisoner. A hundred times over he repeated:
"I must have done with it. I will speak to Des Boys this evening,
to-morrow morning at latest.... He will laugh at me. But that's all.
He will have to give in afterwards. My will, Rose's will.... I shall
carry her off and take her to Paris. Is it my first adventure? If it's
the last it will at least be a splendid one."
He pictured to himself all the details of this romantic enterprise. He
would, of course, reserve a compartment in the train so as to insure
a propitious solitude. It would not be at night, but in the evening.
After an amusing little supper and some thrilling kisses, Rose would
go to sleep on his shoulder and from time to time he would touch her
breast, kiss her eyelids. She would be, at this moment, at once his
wife and his mistress, the woman who has given herself, but whom one
has not yet taken, a beautiful fruit to be looked at and delicately
handled before it is at last relished. What an exquisite creature of
love she would be. How docile her curiosity! What a pupil, like clay
the hands of the sculptor. An elopement? Why not a marriage tour? No,
no elopements! no romantic nonsense! Des Boys will give me his daughter
when I want....
But suddenly he had a curious vision. He was standing on the platform
of Caen station, amusing himself by peeping indiscreetly into the
carriages, and what did he see?--Rose and Leonor huddled together,
mouth against mouth. The train moved on, and he was left standing
there, looking at the red light disappearing in the smoke....
He got up, full of jealousy; he ran, then slowed down, listening for
possible words, questioning the silence. Without his knowing exactly
why, Rose's laugh, heard through the leaves of the wood, reassured him.
He saw Leonor stoop down and rise again holding a little pink flower in
his hand.
"_Sherardia arvensis_," he said, taking the flower. "It has no business
to grow here. Its place is in the field next door. _Arvensis_, you see,
_arvensis_. But there are lots of plants that lose their way."
"He knows everything," said Rose. "You see, he knows everything."
Leonor, who had understood the allusion, did not answer. He walked
away, under the pretense of continuing his botanical researches in the
wood.
"If love were born at this moment in my heart, it would be most
untimely, it would have chosen its place very unfortunately. Does he
love as he is loved? That is what I should like to know. Is he capable
of perseverance? Who knows? It may be, Rose, that you will one day lie
weeping in my arms."
All three of them made their way back, Leonor walking a little ahead.
M. Hervart kept silence, for what he had to say demanded secrecy, and
commonplace words were impossible. Rose did not notice the silence; she
herself did not think of talking. She was happy, walking dose to her
lover. Sometimes, furtively she stretched out her hand and squeezed
one of his fingers. M. Hervart allowed his left arm to hang limply on
purpose. Leonor did not turn round once, and Rose was grateful to him
for that. M. Hervart, who felt that his secret had been guessed, would
have preferred a less deliberate, a less suspicious discretion.
"What have these architects come to do here?" he wondered. "It looks
as though it had all been arranged by the Des Boys with a view to
getting off their daughter. Will they come back? Leonor certainly will.
And shall I be able to stay?"
His perplexities began again. When Rose's hand touched his own, he
felt himself her prisoner, her happy slave. As soon as the contact was
removed, he was seized by ideas of flight and liberty. He would like
to have called Leonor, flung Rose into his arms and made off across
country.
"I have never been so much disturbed by any amour. It's the question
of marriage. What complications! I hate this fellow Leonor. But for
him.... But for him? But is he the only man in the world? If I don't
take her, it will be somebody else." Suddenly he drew closer to Rose
and whispered frenziedly in her ear a stream of tender and violent
words, "Rose, I love you, I desire you with all my being, I want you."
Rose started, but these words responded so exactly to her own thoughts
that she was only surprised by their suddenness. First she blushed,
then a smile of happy sweetness lit up her face and her eyes shone with
life and desire.
They soon rejoined Lanfranc and M. Des Boys, who were confabulating
over a glass of wine. A few minutes later the architects got into their
carriage.
At the moment when the groom let go of the horse's head, Leonor turned
round. Rose realised that the gesture was meant for her; she slightly
shrugged her shoulders.
"I'm going to do a little painting," said M. Des Boys.
"I caught sight of an interesting beetle at the top of the garden,"
said M. Hervart.
"I'm going up to my room," said Rose.
Five minutes later the two lovers had met again near the bench on which
M. Hervart had meditated in vain.
Without saying a word, Rose let herself fall into her lover's arms. Her
drooping head revealed her neck, and M. Hervart kissed it with more
passion than usual. His mouth pushed aside the collar of her dress,
seeking her shoulder.
"Let us sit down," she said at last, when she had had her fill of her
lover's mild caresses. And taking his head between her hands, she in
her turn covered him with kisses, but mostly on the eyes and on the
forehead. Desiring a more tender contact, he took the offensive, seized
the exquisite head and after a slight resistance made a conquest of her
lips. There was always, when they were sitting down, a little struggle
before he reached this point, although she had often, when they were
walking, offered him her lips frankly. On the bench it was more
serious, because it was slower and because the kiss irradiated more
easily throughout her body.
"No, Xavier, no!"
But she surrendered. For the first time, M. Hervart, having loosened
her bodice, touched the soft flesh of her breast, fluttering with fear
and passion. He kissed her violently, and when the kiss was slow in
coming she provoked it, amorously. A simultaneous start put an end to
their double pleasure; and there, sitting close to one another, were
a pair of lovers, at once happy and ill satisfied. One of them was
wondering if love had not completer pleasures to offer; and the other
was saying, what a pity that one is a decent man!
At the moment M. Hervart considered himself very reserved. Later, when
he had recovered his presence of mind a little more, he felt certain
scruples, for he was delicate and subject to headaches as a result of
indecisive pleasures. He felt proud of the at least partial domination,
which he could, at scabrous moments, exercise over his nervous centres
with his well-constructed, well-conditioned brain.
"Do you love your husband, little Rose?"
"Oh, yes!"
She roused herself to utter this exclamation with energy. M. Hervart
felt no further indecision. Furthermore, he began almost at once to
give a new direction to his thoughts. He wanted something to eat; Rose
acquiesced. As she was slow in getting up he wanted to pick her up in
his arms; but his arms, grown strangely weak, were unequal to the light
burden. M. Hervart felt, too, that his legs were not as solid as they
might have been. He would have liked to eat and at the same time to
lie down in the grass. He let himself fall back on the bench.
"You look so tired," said Rose, inventing every kind of tenderness.
"Stay here, I'll bring you some cakes and wine."
But he refused and they went back together.
Cheered by a little sherry and some brioches, M. Hervart asked for
music. Rose, inexpert though she was, soothed her lover with all the
melodies he desired. She even sang to him. The songs were all romances.
"Joys of the young couple," he said to himself, half dozing. "A picture
by Greuze. Nothing is lacking except the little spaniel dog and the
paternal old man looking in at the window and shedding a few quiet
tears 'inspired by memory' at the sight of this ravishing scene. There,
I'm laughing at myself, so that I can't be quite so badly done for as
might have been thought. Not so close a prisoner, either."
"Go and see my father," said Rose, leaving a verse half sung. "I'll
come and find you there later."
And she went on with her music.
"More and more conjugal, for I shall obey her after having, of course,
gone over: I kissed her in the neck. Dear child, she's waiting for the
surprise, shivering at it already...."
Everything went off as M. Hervart had predicted, but there was
something more. Rose turned round and said, after offering her lips:
"Go along, my darling, and mind you admire his painting a lot, more
than yesterday."
"Yes, my love."
"How charming it all is!" he said to himself as he knocked at the
studio door. "Delightful family conspiracies. Shall I be able to play
this part for long? Suppose I announce my intentions to my venerable
friend. Obviously there can be no more hesitation. Come on!"
They talked of Ste. Clotilde. M. Hervart was loud in his praise both
of the historical knowledge as well as the pictorial skill of the
master of Robinvast, and at every word he uttered he felt a longing to
make the conversation touch on the conjugal virtues of that honourable
queen. Then the desire passed.
Dinner time came. Afterwards, as usual, they played a game of whist.
M. Hervart retired to bed with pleasure and, wearied by his kisses and
his thoughts, went to sleep full of the contentment that comes from a
pleasant fatigue.
"I shall have to warn Rose," he said to himself as soon as he woke,
rather late, next morning, "of her mother's schemes. They might make
her fall into some trap."
He soon found an opportunity. In the morning their kisses were more
reserved, still somnolent. They frittered away the time pleasantly. M.
Hervart would sometimes make a serious examination of some rare insect:
Rose worked at her embroidery with conviction. They did not venture
into the wood, because of the dew, but remained in the neighbourhood of
the house. At this hour of the day M. Hervart was always particularly
lucid. He discoursed on a hundred different topics and Rose listened,
without daring to interrupt, even when she did not understand. She
enjoyed the sound of his voice much more than the sense of his words.
Rose was not surprised to learn of her mothers schemes. She
confessed, furthermore, that she had divined in M. Varin's attitude
the existence of quite definite intentions. It was therefore decided
that M. Hervart should make his request that very day in order to
forestall circumstances. Rose spoke so resolutely and her words were
so lyrical that M. Hervart felt all his absurd hesitations melt away
within him. She knew her parents' income and gave the figure, very
straightforwardly, like the practical woman she was. M. Des Boys had an
income of sixty thousand francs of which, she imagined, he hardly spent
half. There was no doubt that he would willingly give the greater part
of the other half to his only daughter. As she had also calculated,
though with less certainty, the value of M. Hervart's fortune, she
included decisively:
"We shall have from thirty to forty thousand francs a year."
M. Hervart calculated the figures again with the details that were
known to him personally and found the estimate correct. His admiration
for Rose was increased.
"She has all the virtues: an aptitude for love and the sense of
domestic economy, intelligence and very little education, health
without a striking beauty. Finally, she adores me and I love her."
At the first insinuations of his friend M. Des Boys smiled and said:
"I thought as much. My daughter has received but the vaguest education.
Her mother is incapable. As for me, I am interested only in art. She
needs a serious husband, a husband, that is to say, who is not in his
first youth. If she wants you, take her. I'll go and ask her."
M. Hervart was on the point of saying there was no need. But luckily he
checked himself and M. Des Boys questioned his daughter.
"I should like to," she said.
M. Des Boys returned.
"She said, 'I should like to,' She said it without enthusiasm, but she
said it. Now go and arrange things yourselves. I shall go on with my
painting."
M. Hervart admired Rose still more for her astute answer.
The girl was waiting for him as he came towards her, serious, scarcely
smiling, but beautified by the profound emotion that she could scarcely
contain. She gave him her hand, then her forehead; and when M. Hervart
drew her into his arms, she burst into tears.