“Really?”
“Really.”
He took her hand and pressed it. “Oh! how I love you. How good and brave you are! So you don’t want to marry Monsieur de Cazolles?”
“Oh! no.”
“Your father was very angry when you said no?”
“I should think so. He wanted to send me back to the convent.”
“You see that it is necessary to be energetic.”
“I will be so.”
She looked at the vast horizon, her head full of the idea of being ran off with. She would go further than that with him. She would be ran away with. She was proud of it. She scarcely thought of her reputation—of what shame might befall her. Was she aware of it? Did she even suspect it?
Madame Walter, turning round, exclaimed: “Come along, little one. What are you doing with Pretty-boy?”
They rejoined the others and spoke of the seaside, where they would soon be. Then they returned home by way of Chatou, in order not to go over the same road twice. George no longer spoke. He reflected. If the little girl had a little courage, he was going to succeed at last. For three months he had been enveloping her in the irresistible net of his love. He was seducing, captivating, conquering her. He had made himself loved by her, as he knew how to make himself loved. He had captured her childish soul without difficulty. He had at first obtained of her that she should refuse Monsieur de Cazolles. He had just obtained that she would