She listened to him with an enigmatic smile, while she stroked his face with that gesture of adoration so familiar to him.
“To-morrow we’ll talk about the future. To-morrow, not to-day,” she said.
“Why should we wait a day? On the contrary, we ought to decide at once on the date of our departure.”
“Our departure?”
“Yes, for Paris.”
She could not conceal her discontent.
“Always Paris. You talk about it all the time. You are obsessed by it.”
“It’s in Paris that I must earn my daily bread,” he replied, in a melancholy voice.
Supply and fawningly she slid into his arms, and sought the red of his lips beneath his moustache, murmuring close to him:
“I asked you for one year of your life. To live one year with neither past nor future, to breathe in our tenderness every day, to have you forget all the rest of the world for me. Don’t you remember?”