My cousin said nothing; she only held down her eyes—while her cheeks were as red as those of cherries in May.
I checked myself.
"Are you angry with me?" I asked, tremblingly. "Are you angry with me, Rose?"
She held out to me her hand. On that, my heart seething with audacity, my head on fire, I cried:—
"Rose—I swear it! I will be your husband!" And as she shook her head and looked at me sadly, I added: "Oh! I well know that my uncle is self-willed, but I will be more self-willed still; and, since he must be forced to say 'yes,' I will force him to say it!"
"But how?" asked Rose.
Ah! how? That was exactly the difficulty. But, no matter; I would find a way to surmount it!
At that moment a heavy step resounded in the street. Instinctively we moved away from each other; I returned to my double-handed sword, and Rose, to keep herself in countenance, set to dusting, with a corner of her apron, a little statuette in its faded red velvet case.
My uncle entered. Surprised at finding us together, he stopped short and looked sharply at us, from one to the other.
We each of us went on rubbing without raising our heads.