“Oh! my hand would tremble before you, monsieur.”
“Why so? I will give you a lesson.”
“Will you, really?”
“Why, yes; to be sure.”
She seated herself at the table; I placed a chair close beside hers, put my right arm about her, and guided her hand with mine; my face touched her hair; her whole body was against mine; I inhaled her sweet breath, and I could count the beating of her heart. Ah! what pleasure that lesson afforded me! Unconsciously, without premeditation, I made her write I love you again and again. My hand trembled as violently as the hand I was guiding. But a tear fell from her eyes. The pen dropped from our hands. I have no idea how it happened; but Nicette’s pretty face was hidden against my breast, her two arms were about me, and mine pressed her fondly to my heart. At that moment I felt that even if Madame de Marsan, or any other woman, were present, I would not put Nicette’s arms away.
We had been a long while in that position and did not think of changing it. Nicette was happy, and I—I must confess it—enjoyed a pleasure that I had never known before, a pleasure of which I had no conception, undisturbed by any desire for which I need blush. But, engrossed as I was by the present, I could not answer for the future; another caress might kindle a conflagration.
There came a loud knock at the door of the shop. Nicette started from my arms, and I looked at her with some disquietude.
“Who can have come to see you so late? You told me that you had no acquaintances.”