dared not speak or move. He looked at the hands that hid Rose's face.
When she uncovered her face, it was grave and her eyes were wet. She said nothing, but went off and picked a blackberry as though nothing had happened. But instead of eating it, she threw it aside and, instead of coming back to M. Hervart, she walked away.
M. Hervart felt chilled. He stood looking at her sadly, as she smoothed the folds of her dress and set her hat straight.
When she reached the corner by the lilac bushes, Rose stopped, turned round and blew a kiss then, then, taking flight, she disappeared in the direction of the house.
The scene had lasted two or three minutes; but in that little space, M. Hervart had lived a great deal. It had been the most moving instant of his life; at least he could not remember having known one like it. At the sound of that name, Xavier, almost blotted from his memory, a host of charming moments from the past had entered his heart; he thought of his mother's love, of his first declaration, his first caresses. He found himself once more at the
