We take each other’s hand in confused hesitation.

* * * * * *

A little later there is a scraping at the door, then a timid knock, and a long figure appears.

It is Veron who presents himself with an awkward air.  His tall and badly jointed body swings like a hanging signboard.  He is an original and sentimental soul, but no one has ever troubled to find out what he is.  He begins, “My young friend—­hum, hum—­” (he repeats this formless sound every two or three words, like a sort of clock with a sonorous tick)—­“One may be wanting money, you know, for something—­hum, hum; you need money, perhaps—­hum, hum; all this expense—­and I’d said to myself ‘I’ll take him some——­’”

He scrutinizes me as he repeats, “Hum, hum.”  I shake his hand with tears in my eyes.  I do not need money, but I know I shall never forget that action; so good, so supernatural.

And when he has swung himself out, abashed by my refusal, embarrassed by the unusual size of his legs and his heart, I sit down in a corner, seized with shivering.  Then I obliterate myself in another corner, equally forlorn.  It seems as if Marie has gone away with all I have.  I am in mourning and I am all alone, because of her.

CHAPTER IV

MARIE

The seat leans against the gray wall, at the spot where a rose tree hangs over it, and the lane begins to slope to the river.  I asked Marie to come, and I am waiting for her in the evening.

When I asked her—­in sudden decision after so many days of hesitation—­to meet me here this evening, she was silent, astonished.  But she did not refuse; she did not answer.  Some people came and she went away.  I am waiting for her, after that prayer.

Slowly I stroll to the river bank.  When I return some one is on the seat, enthroned in the shadow.  The face is indistinct, but in the apparel of mourning I can see the neck-opening, like a faint pale heart, and the misty expansion of the skirt.  Stooping, I hear her low voice, “I’ve come, you see.”  And, “Marie!” I say.

I sit down beside her, and we remain silent.  She is there—­wholly.  Through her black veils I can make out the whiteness of her face and neck and hands—­all her beauty, like light enclosed.

For me she had only been a charming picture, a passer-by, one apart, living her own life.  Now she has listened to me; she has come at my call; she has brought herself here.

* * * * * *

The day has been scorching.  Towards the end of the afternoon storm-rain burst over the world and then ceased.  One can still hear belated drops falling from the branches which overhang the wall.  The air is charged with odors of earth and leaves and flowers, and wreaths of wind go heavily by.

She is the first to speak; she speaks of one thing and another.