"Oh, it is to that circumstance that I owe the honor?"
"Maurice," said Geneviève, softly, "I cannot keep the person I came to see waiting; but if this puts you to the least inconvenience return to Paris, only send back the carriage for me."
"No, no, Madame," replied Maurice, quickly, "I am at your service." He bowed to Geneviève, who, sighing softly, proceeded on her way, and entered Auteuil.
Maurice went to the appointed place, and commenced walking backward and forward with long impatient strides, cutting off with his cane like Tarquin all the heads of the weeds, flowers, and thistles, which he found upon the road; and like all persons whose thoughts are preoccupied, he continued without pausing to trace and retrace his footsteps.
And what occupied his thoughts? The desire to know whether Geneviève loved him or not. Her manner to him was that of a friend or sister, but he felt this was no longer sufficient. He loved her with an entire love. She had become his sole thought by day, his constantly renewed dream by night. At one time, he only asked to see her again; nothing could satisfy him now but her love.
Geneviève was absent for an hour, which to him had appeared an age; he then saw her approaching him with a smile upon her lips. Maurice, on the contrary, went to meet her with a frowning brow.
Geneviève, smiling, took his arm.
"Here I am," said she; "pardon me, mon ami, for having made you wait."
Maurice only replied by a bow; and they then entered a shady lane, which, by a winding path, conducted them into the high-road.
It was one of those delicious evenings in spring when every plant sends its fragrance on high, when every bird, either seated on the branches, or skipping from spray to spray, warbles its songs of praise to God; one of those evenings that seem destined to live forever in our memory. Maurice was silent, Geneviève pensive. She fondled with one hand the flowers of a bouquet which she held in the other that rested on the arm of Maurice.