XI

She had yielded her hand to him, and replied pantingly: “No, I cannot, I will not. Think of what would be said, of the servants, of my daughters. No, no, it is impossible.”

He went on: “I can no longer live without seeing you. Whether at your house or elsewhere, I must see you, if only for a moment, every day, to touch your hand, to breathe the air stirred by your dress, to gaze on the outline of your form, and on your great calm eyes that madden me.”

She listened, quivering, to this commonplace love-song, and stammered: “No, it is out of the question.”

He whispered in her ear, understanding that he must capture her by degrees, this simple woman, that he must get her to make appointments with him, where she would at first, where he wished afterwards. “Listen, I must see you; I shall wait for you at your door like a beggar; but I will see you, I will see you tomorrow.”

She repeated: “No, do not come. I shall not receive you. Think of my daughters.”

“Then tell me where I shall meet you⁠—in the street, no matter where, at whatever hour you like, provided I see you. I will bow to you; I will say ‘I love you,’ and I will go away.”

She hesitated, bewildered. And as the brougham entered the gateway of her residence she murmured hurriedly: “Well, then, I shall be at the Church of the Trinity tomorrow at half-past three.” Then, having alighted, she said to her coachman: “Drive Monsieur Du Roy back to his house.”

As he reentered his home, his wife said: “Where did you get to?”

He replied, in a low tone: “I went to the telegraph office to send off a message.”