Nor did she see him the next day. That night, she had a touch of fever and her mind wandered a little, mingling the picture of Guillaume with that of Mlle. Charmeron.
She laughed merrily at all this on waking. Nothing could touch her faith in her lover. She was as sure of him as of herself.
She rose in good spirits, resolved to be happy came what might. And she was happy: a plucky creature judging others by her own lofty standards, whose nerves and woman’s instinct may be alarmed for a moment, without allowing a breath to disturb the serenity of her soul.
She played and sang until lunch-time. After lunch, she strolled in her garden and picked some flowers. When she went in, she found Guillaume waiting for her in the drawing-room:
“You ... you ...!” she murmured, half-swooning with emotion.
She was obliged to sit down and they remained at some distance from each other, not daring to raise their eyes. It seemed to Gilberte as though her whole life would not be enough to take in all the joy that wrapped her round. How right had she been to be happy in spite of all things and to prepare herself for this greater happiness, which she could never have borne, had she been sad and suspicious.
Guillaume asked:
“Did you not meet my mother? She is looking for you in the garden.”
“Is your mother here?”
“Oh, Gilberte, would I have come without her, when I would not even go over there, among the rocks, for fear of displeasing you?”