She felt Réal sway under her hands, paused in concern and said: "You are tired." But as he didn't move, she actually led him to a chair, pushed him into it, and sat on the floor at his feet. She rested her head against his knees and kept possession of one of his hands. A sigh escaped her. "I knew this was going to be," she said very low. "But I was taken by surprise."
"Oh, you knew it was going to be," he repeated faintly.
"Yes! I had prayed for it. Have you ever been prayed for, Eugène?" she asked, lingering on his name.
"Not since I was a child," answered Réal in a sombre tone.
"Oh yes! You have been prayed for to-day. I went down to the church. . . ." Réal could hardly believe his ears. . . . The abbé let me in by the sacristy door. He told me to renounce the world. I was ready to renounce anything for you." Réal, turning his face to the darkest part of the room, seemed to see the spectre of fatality awaiting its time to move forward and crush that calm, confident joy. He shook off the dreadful illusion, raised her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss, and then asked:
"So you knew that it was going to be? Everything? Yes! And of me, what did you think?"
She pressed strongly the hand to which she had been clinging all the time. "I thought this."
"But what did you think of my conduct at times? You see, I did not know what was going to be. I . . . I was afraid," he added under his breath.
"Conduct? What conduct? You came, you went. When you were not here I thought of you, and when you were here I could look my fill at you. I tell you I knew how it was going to be. I was not afraid then."
"You went about with a little smile," he whispered, as one would mention an inconceivable marvel.