She skated, she swam, she was sport-loving.  Raoul said to the young girl, with deep enthusiasm:  “I congratulate you.  A woman who can’t swim isn’t a woman.”

And he added, with increasing energy: 

“A woman who can’t skate isn’t a woman.”

When he had a strong thought, he willingly used it again in a brief but striking form.

Martha’s face beamed with joy.  She was really a woman.  Never had a sweeter word been said to her.

Night had come; it was necessary, therefore, to tear one’s self away from that exquisite conversation, and return to the parlor-car.  Young Derame was going to sleep; so they began to prepare for the trip through the train.

Here is the platform, the platform of the morning, the platform of the first meeting.  She walks ahead of him, and in a whisper he says to her, “It’s here that this morning—­”

She turns round, and smiling repeats, “Yes, it’s here that this morning—­”

Always with that little English accent which never leaves her, even when she is most agitated.

It is here that this morning—­That was all, and it said all.  A delightful evening.  No more rain, no more dust.  Already there was the soft, balmy air of the South.  The moon lit that idyl at full speed.  Spring-time everywhere, in the sky and in the hearts.

“She loves me,” he said to himself.

“He adores me,” she said to herself.

How right they were to give themselves up thus, without a struggle, without resistance, to the inclination which carried them, quite naturally, towards each other.  There had been between them, from the first word, so perfect, so complete a community of tastes, ideas, and sentiments.  They were so well made, this little puppet and this little doll, to roll off, both together, gloriously in the “Chamblard coupe,” so well matched to walk in the world, accomplishing mechanically, automatically, at the right hour, in the prescribed costume, everywhere where it was correct to take pleasure, all the functions of fashionable life, and all the rituals of worldly worship.

They arrive in the parlor-car.  The shades are drawn over the lamps; travellers are stiff, drowsy, and asleep in the big red arm-chairs.

“Change places,” Raoul whispers to Maurice; “sit beside her.  I am going to sit by the mother; I must speak to her.”

Maurice lent himself to this manoeuvre with perfect docility, Martha did not understand it.  Why did he abandon her?  Why was he talking to her mother, and so low, so low that she couldn’t hear?  What was he saying?  What was he saying?

This is what he said between Montelimar, 8.35, and Pierrelatte, 8.55: 

“Listen to me, madam, listen to me.  I am an honest man; I wish, I ought, to let you know the situation, the entire situation.  Let us first settle an important point.  My father knows M. Derame.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”