Albine was seated on a patch of grass a few paces away from the wall. She sprang up as she caught sight of Serge.
‘Ah! you have come!’ she cried, trembling from head to foot.
‘Yes,’ he answered calmly, ‘I have come.’
She flung herself upon his neck, but she did not kiss him. To her bare arms the beads of his neckband seemed very cold. She scrutinised him, already feeling uneasy, and resuming:
‘What is the matter with you? Why don’t you kiss my cheeks as you used to do? Oh! if you are ill, I will cure you once again. Now that you are here, all our old happiness will return. There will be no more wretchedness.... See! I am smiling. You must smile, too, Serge.’
But his face remained grave.
‘I have been troubled, too,’ she went on. ‘I am still quite pale, am I not? For a whole week I have been living on that patch of grass, where you found me. I wanted one thing only, to see you coming back through the breach in the wall. At every sound I sprang up and rushed to meet you. But, alas! it was not you I heard. It was only the leaves rustling in the wind. But I was sure that you would come. I should have waited for you for years.’
Then she asked him:
‘Do you still love me?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I love you still.’