“Pretty well, Jules,” she answered in a coaxing voice, “do come and dine beside me.”
“Very good,” he said, giving her the letter. “Here is something Fouguereau gave me for you.”
Clemence, who was very pale, colored high when she saw the letter, and that sudden redness was a fresh blow to her husband.
“Is that joy,” he said, laughing, “or the effect of expectation?”
“Oh, of many things!” she said, examining the seal.
“I leave you now for a few moments.”
He went down to his study, and wrote to his brother, giving him directions about the payment to the widow Gruget. When he returned, he found his dinner served on a little table by his wife’s bedside, and Josephine ready to wait on him.
“If I were up how I should like to serve you myself,” said Clemence, when Josephine had left them. “Oh, yes, on my knees!” she added, passing her white hands through her husband’s hair. “Dear, noble heart, you were very kind and gracious to me just now. You did me more good by showing me such confidence than all the doctors on earth could do me with their prescriptions. That feminine delicacy of yours—for you do know how to love like a woman—well, it has shed a balm into my heart which has almost cured me. There’s truce between us, Jules; lower your head, that I may kiss it.”
Jules could not deny himself the pleasure of that embrace. But it was not without a feeling of remorse in his heart; he felt himself small before this woman whom he was still tempted to think innocent. A sort of melancholy joy possessed him. A tender hope shone on her features in spite of their grieved expression. They both were equally unhappy in deceiving each other; another caress, and, unable to resist their suffering, all would then have been avowed.
“To-morrow evening, Clemence.”