“No, nothing!” she stammered. “I want nothing but this, nothing but what is mine, oh, nothing, nothing more!”
“Swear it to me ... by something sacred!”
“I swear it to you ... by yourself!” she declared.
He pressed her head to his shoulder again. He smiled; and she did not see that there was sadness in his laugh, for she was blinded with light.
5
They were long silent, sitting there. She remembered having said many things, she no longer knew what. About her she saw that it was dark, with only that pearl-grey twilight of stars above their heads, between the black boughs. She felt that she was lying with her head on his shoulder; she heard his breath. A sort of chill crept down her shoulders, notwithstanding the warmth of his embrace; she drew the lace closer about her throat and felt that the bench on which they sat was moist with dew.
“I thank you, I love you so, you make me so happy,” she repeated.
He was silent; he pressed her to him very gently, with sheer tenderness. Her last words still sounded in her ears after she had spoken them. Then she was bound to acknowledge to herself that they had not been spontaneous, like all that she had told him before, as he knelt before her with his head at her breast. She had spoken them to break the silence: formerly that silence had never troubled her; why should it now?
“Come!” he said gently; and even yet she did not hear the sadness of his voice, in this single word.