The sun was sinking when Emile arrived: it was the hour when all things are lovely—grave and smiling at once. Emile fancied that he had never before appreciated Gilberte's beauty, he was so impressed by it at that moment; as if it were the first time, as if he had not been living for six weeks in an ecstasy of contemplation.
No matter; he persuaded himself that he had hitherto noticed only the half of her hair and only the hundredth part of the charms contained in her smile, of her grace of movement, of the inestimable treasures of her glance.
He had some important things to say to her, he remembered nothing. He could think of nothing but looking at her and listening to her. All that she said was so striking, so novel to him! How redolent she was of the richness of nature, how she made him realize the perfection of its most trivial details! If she showed him a flower, he discovered shades of coloring therein whose delicacy or beauty he had never before appreciated; if she spoke in terms of admiration of the sky, he discovered that he had never seen the sky so lovely. The landscape at which she gazed assumed a magical aspect and he could think of nothing to say, except:
"Oh! yes, how lovely it is! Oh! you are right. Of course, of course, what you see and what you say is so true!"
There is a delicious stupidity in the mind of a lover: everything means I love you! and it would be a vain task to seek any other meaning to their monotonous agreement on all subjects. Still, although she was even less experienced than Emile, Gilberte, being a woman, understood a little more clearly what she herself felt, whereas Emile loved, as we breathe, without reflecting that a problem or a prodigy is connected with every minute of our lives.
Gilberte questioned herself more and was more overcome with astonishment. She speedily made an effort to change the form of their conversation, in which, by dint of saying nothing at all, they said far too much.
She mentioned Monsieur de Boisguilbault, and Emile was compelled to say that he had no hope. All his disappointment reawoke at that admission and he bitterly lamented the destiny that deprived him of his sole opportunity to make himself useful to Monsieur de Châteaubrun and to gratify Gilberte.
"Oh! have no fear on that score," said the girl innocently, "I shall be none the less under obligation to you; for thanks to your zeal and courage my mind is at rest on the main point. Let me tell you what worried me most. In view of the marquis's haughty obstinacy and my father's generous humility, an intolerable suspicion had found its way into my mind. I fancied that my dear father might have inflicted some grave injury upon him—unintentionally, I am sure,—and I was anxious to discover the secret so that I could take upon myself to repair it. Oh! I would have done it at the cost of my life! But now——"
"But now! well, now," said Monsieur Antoine, suddenly appearing around a clump of wild shrubs, and smiling with his usual expression of frank trustfulness, "what the deuce are you telling in such a serious tone, and what is it that you would repair at the cost of your life, my dear love? I see, Emile, that she has taken you for her confessor, and that she is accusing herself of killing a fly with too much temper. What is it? Come, speak out; for your embarrassed air makes me long to laugh. Can it be by any chance that you have secrets from your old father?"
"Oh! no, father! I never will have a secret from you!" cried Gilberte, throwing an arm around Antoine's neck and laying her pink cheek against his copper-colored one. "And then you listen at keyholes in the open air, so you are going to be compelled to hear what is under consideration. If you find any reason to blame us, remember that you have forfeited the right to do it by taking me by surprise and criticising my words. Listen, Monsieur Emile, I am going to tell him everything, for it is much better that he should know it. My dear father, you are unhappy over Monsieur de Boisguilbault's unjust resentment against you on account of a mere trifle."