“Tell me, Monsieur Amedee, does this big Margot, whom you began to pay attentions to a little while ago, please you?”
Amedee quickly denied it. “That immense creature? Never! Now then, Rosine, I came here to amuse myself a little, I will admit. That is not forbidden at my age, is it? But this ball disgusts me. You have no appointment here? No? Is it truly no? Very well, take my arm and let us go. Do you live far from here?”
“In the Avenue d’Orleans, near the Montrouge church.”
“Will you allow me to escort you home, then?”
She would be happy to, and they arose and left the ball. It seemed to the young poet as if the pretty girl’s arm trembled a little in his; but once upon the boulevard, flooded by the light from the silvery moon, Rosine slackened her steps and became pensive, and her eyes were lowered when Amedee sought a glance from them in the obscurity. How sweet was this new desire that troubled the young man’s heart! It was mixed with a little sentiment; his heart beat with emotion, and Rosine was not less moved. They could both find only insignificant things to say.
“What a beautiful night!”
“Yes! It does one good to breathe the fresh air.”
They continued their walk without speaking. Oh, how fresh and sweet it was under these trees!
At last they reached the door of Rosine’s dwelling. With a slow movement she pressed her hand upon the bell-button. Then Amedee, with a great effort, and in a confused, husky voice, asked whether he might go up with her and see her little room.
She looked at him steadily, with a tender sadness in her eyes, and then said to him, softly: