IX

Then she paused. He thought he understood, he thought he divined in her smile, in the tone of her voice, in her words themselves a kind of invitation, and although he had promised to himself not to precipitate matters, he stammered out: “Well, then⁠—why⁠—why should you not resume⁠—this occupation⁠—under⁠—under the name of Duroy?”

She suddenly became serious again, and placing her hand on his arm, murmured: “Do not let us speak of that yet a while.”

But he divined that she accepted, and falling at her knees began to passionately kiss her hands, repeating: “Thanks, thanks; oh, how I love you!”

She rose. He did so, too, and noted that she was very pale. Then he understood that he had pleased her, for a long time past, perhaps, and as they found themselves face to face, he clasped her to him and printed a long, tender, and decorous kiss on her forehead. When she had freed herself, slipping through his arms, she said in a serious tone: “Listen, I have not yet made up my mind to anything. However, it may be⁠—yes. But you must promise me the most absolute secrecy till I give you leave to speak.”

He swore this, and left, his heart overflowing with joy.

He was from that time forward very discreet as regards the visits he paid her, and did not ask for any more definite consent on her part, for she had a way of speaking of the future, of saying “by-and-by,” and of shaping plans in which these two lives were blended, which answered him better and more delicately than a formal acceptation.

Duroy worked hard and spent little, trying to save money so as not to be without a penny at the date fixed for his marriage, and becoming as close as he had been prodigal. The summer went by, and then the autumn, without anyone suspecting anything, for they met very little, and only in the most natural way in the world.