The old woman opened the window and said:
"In that case, call her."
Geneviève was in the garden, sitting on a bench. Four little girls were crowding round her. Others were playing and running about.
He saw her full-face. He saw her grave, smiling eyes. She held a flower in her hand and plucked the petals one by one and gave explanations to the attentive and eager children. Then she asked them questions. And each answer was rewarded with a kiss to the pupil.
Lupin looked at her long, with infinite emotion and anguish. A whole leaven of unknown feelings fermented within him. He had a longing to press that pretty girl to his breast, to kiss her and tell her how he respected and loved her. He remembered the mother, who died in the little village of Aspremont, who died of grief.
"Call her," said Victoire. "Why don't you call her?"
He sank into a chair and stammered:
"I can't. . . . I can't do it. . . . I have not the right. . . . It is impossible. . . . Let her believe me dead. . . . That is better. . . ."
He wept, his shoulders shaking with sobs, his whole being overwhelmed with despair, swollen with an affection that arose in him, like those backward flowers which die on the very day of their blossoming.
The old woman knelt down beside him and, in a trembling voice, asked: