Margot withdrew her hand; she had felt his pulse flying under her fingers.
“I have been thinking things over, Margot, since I have been lying here,” Jean began, fixing her with his brilliant feverish eyes.
“I have come to a great decision. I am going to make a change in my life. I cannot be satisfied to earn money as I am earning it now, out of the mere shell of what, to me, is indestructible life. I must get nearer to the heart of things; why—you’re laughing at me, Margot—but I know you understand—these people who live in Paris cheat and talk and play with sacred fire; I cannot belong to them, I must belong to myself—” Jean paused for a moment; he tossed restlessly on his pillow.
“But a man needs more than that,” he went on at last. “He must have something to look forward to—something human and touching and loving—a man must have a home!”
Margot drew her breath a little quicker, but she saw she wasn’t to interrupt this list of a man’s needs. Jean was evidently feverish to-night; she must look into this directly he stopped talking.
“Margot, come nearer to me. Give me both your hands,” he said, his eyes filled with tears; they were tears half of weakness and half of pleasure; he was pleased at what he was going to do for Margot. She gave him both her hands.
“Have you thought, can you guess, who is to make my home for me? No! Don’t take away your hands, Margot—” He drew them to his lips and she felt his kisses burn them. “They have worked for me and nursed me, these dear hands,” he went on, breathless with sudden passion. “Will you let them stay with me always? Oh, your dear little, wonderful woman’s hands, Margot; they are so small they make me cry; they are so strong that I could worship them. Now, do you see what I meant? We should be very poor, I know, but I could manage, Margot—and we should live in the country, and we would sing and play all day long in the blessed golden silence of Ucelles—say you will, say quickly you will be my wife, Margot. Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Your wife, Jean?” said Margot; all the colour left her face, her heart leapt over against her side like a terrified bird; then it felt very heavy.
“Dear Margot! don’t look so frightened, you are not afraid of me, are you?”
“No! I’m not afraid of you!” gasped Margot. It seemed to her as if a thousand thoughts were beating at the bar of her mind and could not get through. Why did Jean ask this of her? Would it be good for him? Did he really need a quiet, simple life? Could she make him happy that way? But all these questions suddenly seemed to resolve into one. What had made him ask her that question? Her heart rebelled against this stern catechism. Ah, why could she not take her joy when it came to her? It had come at last—for a moment she let the taste of it fill her whole consciousness, but she did not let Jean see that she had done so; she kept her eyes down and no one knew what Margot looked like when she held her heart’s desire. Then she lifted them and looked into Jean’s eyes as Jean had never seen her look before; it was the terrible implacable look of a human being seeking for truth. She looked into Jean’s eyes, and he felt her passing beyond all his careful plans, beyond his excited momentary feelings, his tender regard for her, and his ineffectual gratitude, into his very soul.