"Did you not expect me, then?" he asked.
She made no answer, feeling horribly ashamed of being seen in bed by this man, who looked so grave and correct in his evening-dress. They did not know what to say or do next; they hardly dared to look at one another, in this decisive hour, on which the intimate happiness of their life depended. Perhaps he vaguely felt what perfect self-possession, what affectionate stratagems are needed not to hurt the modesty, the extreme delicacy of a maiden's heart. He gently took her hand and kissed it; then, kneeling by the bed as he would before an altar, he murmured, in a voice soft as a sigh:
"Will you love me?"
She felt a little reassured, and raised her head, which was covered with a cloud of lace.
"I love you already, dear," she said, with a smile.
He took his wife's little slender fingers in his mouth, and, his voice changed by this living gag, he asked:
"Will you give me a proof of your love?"
The question frightened her again, and, only remembering her father's words, and not quite understanding what she said:
"I am yours, dear," she answered.
He covered her hand with humid kisses, and, slowly rising, he bent towards her face, which she again began to hide. Suddenly he threw one arm across the bed, winding it around his wife over the clothes, and slipped his other arm under the bolster, which he raised with her head upon it; then he asked, in a low whisper: