No, she could not guess. She tried to do so, with increasing wonder, whereupon he made a simple sign—nodding his head in the direction of the dining-room.
“He!” she exclaimed, in a muffled tone, and a great seriousness fell upon her. She no longer indulged in violent protestations; only sorrow and surprise remained visible on her face. She sat for a long time plunged in thought, her gaze turned to the floor. Truly, she had never dreamed of such a thing; and yet, she found nothing in it to object to. Monsieur Rambaud was the only man in whose hand she could put her own honestly and without fear. She knew his innate goodness; she did not smile at his bourgeois heaviness. But despite all her regard for him, the idea that he loved her chilled her to the soul.
Meanwhile the Abbé had again begun walking from one to the other end of the room, and on passing the dining-room door he gently called Hélène. “Come here and look!”
She rose and did as he wished.
Monsieur Rambaud had ended by seating Jeanne in his own chair; and he, who had at first been leaning against the table, had now slipped down at the child’s feet. He was on his knees before her, encircling her with one of his arms. On the table was the carriage drawn by the chicken, with some boats, boxes, and bishops’ mitres.
“Now, do you love me well?” he asked her. “Tell me that you love me well!”
“Of course, I love you well; you know it.”
He stammered and trembled, as though he were making some declaration of love.
“And what would you say if I asked you to let me stay here with you always?”
“Oh, I should be quite pleased. We would play together, wouldn’t we? That would be good fun.”