Chapter 10

While he was alone, M. Hervart had done his best to make a decision, as he had promised himself to do; but decisions had fluttered like capricious butterflies round his head and would not let themselves be caught. He was neither surprised nor vexed at the fact.

“Rose,” he said to himself at last, “will do all I want.”

This certitude was enough for him. The moment he had a will, Rose would acquiesce.

“Provided my will agrees with hers, that’s obvious. Now Rose’s wish is to become Mme. Hervart. Dear little thing, she’s in love with me...”

He dwelt complacently on this idea, but a moment later it alarmed him and he felt himself a prisoner. A hundred times over he repeated:

“I must have done with it. I will speak to Des Boys this evening, to-morrow morning at latest ... He will laugh at me. But that’s all. He will have to give in afterwards. My will, Rose’s will ... I shall carry her off and take her to Paris. Is it my first adventure? If it’s the last it will at least be a splendid one.”

He pictured to himself all the details of this romantic enterprise. He would, of course, reserve a compartment in the train so as to insure a propitious solitude. It would not be at night, but in the evening. After an amusing little supper and some thrilling kisses, Rose would go to sleep on his shoulder and from time to time he would touch her breast, kiss her eyelids. She would be, at this moment, at once his wife and his mistress, the woman who has given herself, but whom one has not yet taken, a beautiful fruit to be looked at and delicately handled before it is at last relished. What an exquisite creature of love she would be. How docile her curiosity! What a pupil, like clay the hands of the sculptor. An elopement? Why not a marriage tour? No, no elopements! no romantic nonsense! Des Boys will give me his daughter when I want...

But suddenly he had a curious vision. He was standing on the platform of Caen station, amusing himself by peeping indiscreetly into the carriages, and what did he see?—Rose and Leonor huddled together, mouth against mouth. The train moved on, and he was left standing there, looking at the red light disappearing in the smoke...

He got up, full of jealousy; he ran, then slowed down, listening for possible words, questioning the silence. Without his knowing exactly why, Rose’s laugh, heard through the leaves of the wood, reassured him. He saw Leonor stoop down and rise again holding a little pink flower in his hand.

“Sherardia arvensis,” he said, taking the flower. “It has no business to grow here. Its place is in the field next door. Arvensis, you see, arvensis. But there are lots of plants that lose their way.”

“He knows everything,” said Rose. “You see, he knows everything.”

Leonor, who had understood the allusion, did not answer. He walked away, under the pretense of continuing his botanical researches in the wood.

“If love were born at this moment in my heart, it would be most untimely, it would have chosen its place very unfortunately. Does he love as he is loved? That is what I should like to know. Is he capable of perseverance? Who knows? It may be, Rose, that you will one day lie weeping in my arms.”

All three of them made their way back, Leonor walking a little ahead. M. Hervart kept silence, for what he had to say demanded secrecy, and commonplace words were impossible. Rose did not notice the silence; she herself did not think of talking. She was happy, walking dose to her lover. Sometimes, furtively she stretched out her hand and squeezed one of his fingers. M. Hervart allowed his left arm to hang limply on purpose. Leonor did not turn round once, and Rose was grateful to him for that. M. Hervart, who felt that his secret had been guessed, would have preferred a less deliberate, a less suspicious discretion.