His thoughts became confused. He felt a desire to lie down in the grass and sleep, and he said so.
"All right, lie down and sleep. I'll watch over you and keep the flies away from your eyes and mouth. I'll fan you with this fern."
She spoke in a voice that was caressingly passionate. It was like music. M. Hervart woke up and uttered words of love.
"I love you, Rose. The touch of your lips has refreshed my blood and brought joy to my heart. When I first touched you, it was as though I were clasping a treasure without price. But tell me, my darling, you won't take back this treasure now you have given it?"
M. Hervart was breathing heavily. Rose shook her head and said, "No, I won't take it back;" and to prove that she meant it she leaned towards him, as though offering her bosom; M. Hervart lightly touched the stuff of her blouse with his lips.
Seeing her lover's lack of alacrity, Rose, without suspecting the mystery, at least guessed that there was a mystery.
"No doubt," she thought, "love needs a rest every now and then. We will go for a little walk and I'll talk to him of flowers and insects. We should do well, perhaps, to go back to the garden, for it would be very annoying if they took it into their heads to come and look for us." They got up and walked round the wood meaning to go straight back to the house.
M. Hervart seemed to be in an absent-minded mood. He was holding Rose's hand in his, but he forgot to squeeze it. His thoughts were, none the less, thoughts of love. He looked about him as though he were searching for something.
"What are you looking for? Tell me; I'll look too."
M. Hervart was looking for a nook. He inspected the dry leaves, peeped into every nook and bower of the wood. But he felt ashamed of his quest.