"I wish this hair was my own," she said; "then I would cut it off and throw it into the stream."
There was an opportunity for a well-turned compliment; but Emile was careful not to take advantage of it. What could he say about that hair which would express the love he bore it? He had never touched it and he was dying with the longing to do so. He glanced furtively about. A circle of rocks and shrubs isolated Gilberte and himself from the whole world. There was no spot on the mountain from which they could be seen. One would have said that she had selected that sheltered retreat to tempt him, and yet the innocent maiden had not thought of it, nor did she think that she was in any danger there.
Emile was no longer master of himself. Insomnia, alarm, grief and joy had kindled fever in his blood. He knelt beside Gilberte and took a handful of her rebellious hair in his trembling hand; then, as she started, he dropped it again, saying:
"I thought it was a wasp, but it is only a bit of moss."
"You frightened me," said Gilberte, shaking her head; "I thought it was a snake."
Meanwhile Emile's hand was clinging to her hair and could not let it go. On the pretext of assisting Gilberte to collect the scattered locks of which the breeze disputed possession with her, he touched it a hundred times, and at last put his lips to it stealthily. Gilberte did not seem to notice it, and hurriedly replacing her hat upon the ill-assured mass, she rose and said with an air which she strove to render unconcerned:
"Let us go to see if my father has awakened."
But she was trembling; a sudden pallor had driven the brilliant color from her cheeks; her heart was ready to burst; she staggered and leaned against the rock to keep from falling. Emile was at her feet.
What did he say to her? He did not know himself, and the echoes of Crozant did not retain his words. Gilberte did not hear them distinctly; she had the roar of the torrent in her ears, increased a hundredfold by the throbbing of the blood in her arteries, and it seemed to her that the mountain, seized with convulsions, was swaying to and fro over her head.
She had no legs with which to fly, indeed she did not think of it. In vain does one fly from love; when it has found its way into the heart, it takes root there and accompanies it everywhere. Gilberte did not know that there was any other peril in love than that of allowing her heart to be taken by surprise, and, in truth, there were no others for her with Emile. That danger was great enough, Heaven knows, and the vertigo it caused was full of irresistible delights.