“Everything will come out all right,” the good woman kept repeating. “If she does not love you now, she will not fail to do so in time. It is not an opportunity that presents itself twice, and Raymonde is so reasonable.”
But these assurances merely increased my anxiety.
At last M. Mairieux reappeared. He did not bring back with him, however, the repentant culprit, as I had hoped he would. Walking up to me, he laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“We must give her time to come to herself,” he said. “You have frightened her a little. You should have spoken to me first. She is timid. She does not know.”
I heeded nothing but the delay that was being forced upon me.
“Time?” I demanded. “How much time?”
“Several days.”
“Oh, several days! That will be death. A day, one day, won’t that be enough? Mayn’t I come back to-morrow?”
“Well, try it,” agreed M. Mairieux.
I returned to my own home exalted by mingled sensations of anger and love. In the avenue several dead oak trees had been replaced by early chestnuts, and from one of these a leaf blew away. It was certainly one of the first to fall. A breath of wind kept it in the air, and it floated, like a tired bird, around one of the stone vases on the open lawn. Would it rest there, or would it reach the earth? With childish superstition, I looked upon it as an omen. If it fell to the ground, it would mean happiness for me.