She turned quickly again, as if to go; but her feet were glued to the ground, and she did not take a step.
"Oh, s'il vous plaît, mam'selle!" he cried, to hold her. "You think I am rude. But I did not mean to follow you like this. I could not help it. You are so beautiful."
The look he gave her with those words sank deep into her heart and rooted itself there forever. In vain, for the rest of her life, she might try to tear it out; there was a fatality about it. Zabette, fine highstepper that she was, had been caught at last. She knew that she ought to send the handsome young sailor away; but her tongue would not obey her. Instead, it uttered some very childish words of confusion and pleasure; and before she knew it, there was her man walking along at her side, with one hand on his heart, declaring that she was the most angelic creature in the world, that he was desperately in love with her, that he could not live without her, and that she must promise then and there to be his, or he would instantly kill himself. The burning, impassioned look in his eyes struck her with dismay.
"But I cannot decide all in a moment like this," she protested, in a weak voice. "It would be indecent. I must think."
"Think!" he retorted, bitterly. "Oh, very well. Then you do not love me!"
"Ah, but I do!" she cried, all trembling.
With that he took her in his arms and kissed her, and nothing more was heard about suicide or any such subject.
"But we must not tell any one yet," she pleaded. "They would not understand."
He agreed, with the utmost readiness. "We will not tell a soul. It shall be exactly as you wish. But I may come and see you?"
"Oh, certainly," she responded. "Often,—that is, every day or two,—at Grande Anse; and perhaps we may happen to meet sometimes in the village, as well."