"It is only a Louis XIII château; it stands very high, surrounded by orchards, which in the spring are white as snow."
"We shall go there in the spring," she whispered.
Sabron stopped speaking, his reverie was done, and he was silent as the intensity of his love for her surged over him. He lifted her delicate hands to his lips. "It is April now," he said, and his voice shook, "it is spring now, my love."
* * * * * * *
At Julia's side was a slight touch. She cried: "Pitchouné!" He put his paws on her knees and looked up into her face.
"Brunet has brought him here," said Sabron, "and that means the good chap is attending to his own love-making."
Julia laid her hand on Pitchouné's head. "He will love the Normandy beach, Charles."
"He will love the forests," said Sabron; "there are rabbits there."
On the little dog's head the two hands met and clasped. "Pitchouné is the only one in the world who is not de trop," said Julia gently.
Sabron, lifting her hand again to his lips, kissed it long, looking into her eyes. Between that great mystery of the awakening to be fulfilled, they drew near to each other—nearer.