“And already you were pretty?”
“I don’t think so. I was so thin. A grapevine.”
But she understood herself very well, for she added in a tone of mischief:
“Good for kindling fires.”
Then began the pursuit of her by Mr. Frasne. With his pop-eyes and his set ways, which she could feel underneath his insipid airs, her only sentiment toward him was one of repulsion. She was revolted by it all. He was the first of all her suitors to ask for her hand. He possessed a comfortable fortune, an honourable position in Paris; he could, if he liked, acquire a lawyer’s practice at Grenoble or in some neighbouring village. It was the marriage of convenience in all its horrors. She detested poverty; her mother, who was not accustomed to it, objected to it still more. Old people want to live, and mere love does not move them. All her relations got round the girl.
“And so I sold myself,” she concluded.
He had not interrupted her once. With heart beating, he followed her throughout, like one who skirts the edge of an abyss. When she ended her story with this climax he hurled the words at her which came in an instant to his lips, brutally:
“And your dot?”
“Wait, you’ll see.”
Only a few pedestrians were taking the air in the avenue. Some children were playing in the woods, quite far from them. They were almost alone, but even by the presence of these discreet witnesses she lost her best argument in this crisis that she had so adroitly postponed until to-day—the argument of her kisses. She had understood, she could not fail to have understood, what was agitating her lover: so often had it lain upon her own mind, too. It had for so long a time tormented both of them; and at the expense of much effort, by many lies and refusals to talk about the past—which counts for so little when one is in love—she had succeeded in keeping it until now at a safe distance from their happiness. At the back of her head, however, was the idea that by this very thing she would chain him to her forever.