“He doesn’t talk much, but he says all he thinks.”
She laughed, showing her white teeth, which reflected the light, and for the second time Jean found her laugh ring false. He thought of the songs one hears at night in the country, sung by a belated pedestrian frightened at the solitude.
Silent and motionless, M. Landeau devoured his fiancée with his eyes. It was very evident that he felt for her one of those passions that increases instead of lessening with the decline of youth, when it suddenly attacks a heart which has until then been a stranger to love. He was already a middle-aged man, and his clumsy, squarely-built figure lacked distinction. He was little used to society and was easily disconcerted by the light and airy graces which are its very life and soul. The dashing elegance of Jean Berlier, who was only twenty-five, accentuated still more by contrast his own age and clumsiness. From afar he gazed at Isabelle, splendid and beautiful in her white dress, like an idol whom he dared not approach. And she seemed oblivious of everything, even of the unpleasing presence of her millionaire slave.
Through the oak-branches, the sun’s rays filtered on the soil of the wood which was covered with a brown carpet of the leaves of past years.
The two girls walked slowly along the path arm in arm. They passed from sunshine to shade, and from shadow to sunshine again. Amid the shelter of the old straight-limbed trees they felt the peace all about them. Alice of the golden locks was dressed in pink. Paule’s dark hair and mourning dress brought out the paleness of her skin. The fine weather made them both happy, and almost unconsciously they renewed their friendship of the convent days and from time to time they stopped to smile at each other.
Meanwhile neither noticed the other’s excitement. Each had a great secret. Alice, who thought herself very brave since the scene of the morning, was burning to be worthy of her friend’s confidence. Paule, stirred to the depths of her nature, was thinking about the brother whose affection she was about to reveal.
“Paule,” said Alice, “do you remember our talks at the Sacred Heart?”
“I seldom think about them now,” replied Paule.
“One day we were talking about marriage. Raymonde Ortaire, in the class above us, was always discussing the subject. She said, ‘I shall never marry anybody but a rich aristocrat.’ Then we all told in turn what our ideal was. I could only whisper, ‘I don’t know!’ And you, Paule, I see you now with your dark eyes—your lovely dark eyes which shine most at night or in trouble. You said, as if you despised all our ideas, ‘To marry is to love and nothing else.’ Raymonde laughed, but we felt like slapping her!”
“You too?” said Paule, with affectionate irony.