“You don’t love anyone then?”
“No.”
“Nobody?” persisted Paule.
“Nobody.”
But the girl blushed. Was it at her own words, whose boldness shocked her natural reserve, or from a sudden fear that she had distorted the truth?
Paule came to her and put her arm round the slender waist. Then clasping her quite close in the quiet shelter of the wood she murmured quickly, almost timidly, astonished at herself for daring to say what she did:
“Don’t you know that Marcel loves you? He has given you all his heart. Will you consent to be his wife, Alice? He hopes for no happiness except from you alone.”
They were both equally affected and both dropped their eyes to the dead leaves which lay at their feet. At the same moment they both looked up again, blushed, and with a graceful movement embraced each other, and burst into tears.
Paule recovered herself first. She looked with new eyes at this exquisite being leaning on her shoulder, who without uttering a word had become her sister. Alice, meanwhile, a prey to delicious emotion, feared its force and thirsted to feel it always at her heart, accused herself for giving way to it and readily gave way. This first encounter with love made her see into the secret corners of her soul, still so unformed and child-like. Her heart unfolded like some rose-bud, which in the evening seems still closed and next morning one finds with its opening calyx wet with dew.
“You will say ‘Yes’?” asked Paule softly. And in a voice as thin as a breath of air Alice at last whispered, “Yes.”