" Then passed a little more than fifty days,
during which he kept repeating to himself,--"To-morrow!"
It happened at last one evening in the month of August; the heat all
day had been overpowering; towards dusk a breeze had risen, the leaves
rustled; there were signs of a storm in the atmosphere.
They were seated together at the bottom of the garden, under the arbour,
adorned with exotic plants, and, through the branches, they perceived
the fluttering gown of the marchioness, who was taking a turn after her
dinner. They had remained a long time without speaking, enjoying the
perfume of the flowers, the calm beauty of the evening.
M. Daburon ventured to take the young girl's hand. It was the first
time, and the touch of her fine skin thrilled through every fibre of his
frame, and drove the blood surging to his brain.
"Mademoiselle," stammered he, "Claire--"
She turned towards him her beautiful eyes, filled with astonishment.
"Forgive me," continued he, "forgive me. I have spoken to your
grandmother, before daring to raise my eyes to you. Do you not
understand me? A word from your lips will decide my future happiness or
misery.
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