“Your brothers would be much happier if they knew my other plan.” And lowering his eyes to the ground, he added more gently:
“It is a plan infinitely dear to me. Your mother knows what it is.”
He looked at her and saw with surprise that she suspected nothing. He admired this forgetfulness of self, and gravely, with deep tenderness, brought out the decisive words at last:
“Paule, I love you. Will you be my wife and go out there with me?”
She rose in her turn, unable to speak and deathly pale. Her heaving bosom showed the tumult of her heart.
He continued: “I love you, Paule. Did you not know it? Did you not guess it? When I came back from Algiers I found you so brave—and so beautiful. Oh, don’t say no! During the crossing of the Sahara, I remember, Marcel often told me, when we were talking about Savoy, that you were your mother’s comfort. Whenever I was looking for something to stir up my energy, some picture to cheer me and arouse my courage, I thought of you. I know I have always loved you, since the time we were children, when I laughed at your long black hair. My happiness lies in your hands, Paule. Will you not give it to me?”
She made no reply. She was so pale that it seemed as if the blood had left her veins. He took her hand, which she did not withdraw. He waited, confident and calm, his heart swelling with hope.
She gazed at the peaceful countryside unseeingly. The summits of Mount Revard ceased to reflect the sunset glow. All nature was wrapped in the shadow which precedes sleep.
Was not this the happiness that Marcel had predicted for her, on this very spot, during a similar sunset?
As she continued silent, Jean was racked with intolerable anguish. In an altered voice he repeated for the third time.