CHAPTER IX
THE FAREWELL
The next day everything passed off as arranged. Isabelle Orlandi and Jean Berlier took Alice Dulaurens to the park, as far as the oakwood where Marcel had been instructed to wait for her. At the bend of the path they left them face to face, while they continued their walk under the trees, glorious in their autumn dress.
The terrified Alice put her hand on her heart. Her first thought was to fly, but her legs were weak and her breath was gone.
“Stay, do stay,” said Marcel in a grave, pleading voice, which she did not know. “Forgive my boldness. I am going away to Algiers and I wasn’t brave enough to leave without seeing you once again.”
“Ah,” she said, pale and trembling. “What will my mother say?”
Her mother was only her second thought, but he imagined it her first and frowned jealously. However, he went on with the same tender assurance.
“Alice, I have come to tell you that I love you. Paule told me that you loved me. Is it true? I want to hear it from your own lips.”
He saw her tremble and put her two hands to her throat as if she were choking. Her cheeks were colorless and her eyes looked down unseeing on the dead leaves which strewed the path. The oak-branches swayed in the wind with a mournful clash. A pink glow in the sky, appearing through the straight columns of the ancient trees, announced the end of the day.
Her voice was like an infinitely tender plaint as she murmured, “I cannot tell you.”
It was her avowal, the only one she thought permissible.