V

Madame Forestier, who was toying with her knife, added: “Yes⁠—yes⁠—it is pleasant to be loved.”

And she seemed to be carrying her dream further, to be thinking things that she dared not give words to.

As the first entreé was slow in coming, they sipped from time to time a mouthful of champagne, and nibbled bits of crust. And the idea of love, entering into them, slowly intoxicated their souls, as the bright wine, rolling drop by drop down their throats, fired their blood and perturbed their minds.

The waiter brought in some lamb cutlets, delicate and tender, upon a thick bed of asparagus tips.

“Ah! this is good,” exclaimed Forestier; and they ate slowly, savoring the delicate meat and vegetables as smooth as cream.

Duroy resumed: “For my part, when I love a woman everything else in the world disappears.” He said this in a tone of conviction.

Madame Forestier murmured, with her let-me-alone air:

“There is no happiness comparable to that of the first handclasp, when the one asks, ‘Do you love me?’ and the other replies, ‘Yes.’ ”

Madame de Marelle, who had just tossed a fresh glass of champagne off at a draught, said gayly, as she put down her glass: “For my part, I am not so Platonic.”

And all began to smile with kindling eyes at these words.

Forestier, stretched out in his seat on the divan, opened his arms, rested them on the cushions, and said in a serious tone: “This frankness does you honor, and proves that you are a practical woman. But may one ask you what is the opinion of Monsieur de Marelle?”