"My name? But ... Ah, I see ... the other one."
He hesitated. This name, the sound of which he had hardly heard since his mother's death, was so unfamiliar to him that he felt a certain embarrassment at uttering it. He signed himself simply "Hervart." All his friends railed him by this name, for none had known him in the intimacy of the family; even his mistresses had never murmured any other. Besides, women prefer to make use of appellations suitable to every one in general, such as "wolf," or "pussy-cat," or "white rabbit"—M. Hervart, who was thin, had been generally called "wolf."
"Xavier," he said at last. Rose seemed satisfied.
She began eating blackberries as she had done the day before. M. Hervart—just as he had done yesterday, opened his magnifying glass; he counted the black spots on the back of a lady-bird, coccinella septempunctata; there were only six.
In the palm of her little hand, well smeared already with purple, Rose placed a fine blackberry and held it out to M. Hervart. As he did not lift his head, but still sat there, one eye shut, the other absorbed in what he was looking at, she said gently, in a voice without affection, a voice that was deliciously natural:
"Xavier!"
M. Hervart felt an intense emotion. He looked at Rose with surprised and troubled eyes. She was still holding out her hand. He ate the blackberry in a kiss and then repeated several times in succession, "Rose, Rose...."
"How pale you are!" she said equally moved.
She stepped back, leant against the wall. M. Hervart took a step forward. They were standing now, looking into one another's eyes. Very serious, Rose waited. M. Hervart said:
"Rose, I love you."