Touched to the heart, Marcel looked with new eyes on this frightened child, who, only a few feet away from him, a white shawl round her shoulders, stood out like a ghost under the dome of trees. Her long lashes drooped over her blue eyes. Behind her through the branches he saw the setting sun like a huge conflagration, the dark trunks of the oak-trees outlined against it. And the shades of the leaves were glowing and sinister, like gold and blood.
“Alice,” he said again, “if you love me as I love you, promise you will be my wife.”
At last she looked up in the young man’s proud face and understood How much he had gone through for her, and her eyes were wet.
“I cannot ... Marcel ... My parents....” he could say no more—her tears spoke for her. He came nearer and took her hand. She did not draw it away.
In a firm, compelling voice he continued:
“Don’t be unhappy, Alice. You will gain their consent. Be brave and strong enough to wait; time will help us. I only ask you to be patient. I shall do great things for you. I am setting out on an expedition to Africa. I shall win you, my beloved.”
In alarm she begged him not to go, her fears betraying her love.
“No, no, I won’t let you, I won’t let you risk your life. Ah, if you—loved me, you would not go.”
“I am going because I love you, Alice.”
“You don’t know me,” she cried. “I am afraid—I am afraid of everything. I am a poor little wretch. Oh, my head is so heavy!”