“No, no,” he answered. “I’ve simply something to say to you.”
Then he led her under the plum-trees to the only green nook left in the garden. An old worm-eaten bench still stood there against the lilac-bushes. And in front of them Paris spread out its sea of roofs, looking light and fresh in the morning sunlight.
They both sat down. But at the moment of speaking and questioning Marie, Guillaume experienced sudden embarrassment, while his heart beat violently at seeing her beside him, so young and adorable with her bare arms.
“Our wedding-day is drawing near,” he ended by saying. And then as she turned somewhat pale, perhaps unconsciously, he himself suddenly felt cold. Had not her lips twitched as if with pain? Had not a shadow passed over her fresh, clear eyes?
“Oh! we still have some time before us,” she replied.
Then, slowly and very affectionately, he resumed: “No doubt; still it is necessary to attend to the formalities. And it is as well, perhaps, that I should speak of those worries to-day, so that I may not have to bother you about them again.”
Then he gently went on telling her all that would have to be done, keeping his eyes on her whilst he spoke, watching for such signs of emotion as the thought of her promise’s early fulfilment might bring to her face. She sat there in silence, with her hands on her lap, and her features quite still, thus giving no certain sign of any regret or trouble. Still she seemed rather dejected, compliant, as it were, but in no wise joyous.
“You say nothing, my dear Marie,” Guillaume at last exclaimed. “Does anything of all this displease you?”
“Displease me? Oh, no!”
“You must speak out frankly, if it does, you know. We will wait a little longer if you have any personal reasons for wishing to postpone the date again.”