"They are the colour of the infinite sea, Rose."
"It's quite pleasant," thought M. Hervart, "to be the first man to say that to a young girl.... In the ordinary way, women with blue eyes hear that compliment for the hundredth time, and it makes them think that all men are alike and all stupid.... It's men who have made love so insipid.... Rose's eyes are pretty, but I ought not to have said so.... Am I the first?..."
M. Hervart felt the prick, ill defined as yet, of jealousy.
"Who can have taught her these little physical complaisances? She has no girl friends; it must have been some enterprising young cousin.... What a fool I am, torturing myself! Rose has had girl friends, at Valognes at the convent. She has them still, she writes to them.... And besides, what do I care? I'm not in love; it's all nothing more than a series of light sensations, a pretext for amusing observations...."
The afternoon was drawing on. They had to think of the commissions which Mme. Des Boys had given them.... It was time to go down.
"How dark the staircase is," said Rose. "Give me your hand."
At the bottom, as though to thank him for his help, she offered her cheek. His kiss settled on the corner of her mouth. Rose recoiled, warned of danger by this new sensation that was too intimate, too intense. But in the process of moving away, she came near to falling. Her hands clutched at his, and she found herself once more leaning towards M. Hervart. They looked at one another for a moment. Rose shut her eyes and waited for a renewal of the burning touch.
"I hope you haven't hurt yourself."
She burst out laughing.
"That," said M. Hervart to himself, "is what is called being self-controlled. And then she laughs at me for it. Such are the fruits of virtue."