“You don’t know little girls; they are all too glad to have something of which they can make a mystery.”

“When would you like us to begin?”

Marien had by this time said to himself that for him to hold out longer might seem strange to M. de Nailles.  Besides, the matter, though in some respects it gave him cause for anxiety, really excited an interest in him.  For some time past, though he had long known women and knew very little of mere girls, he had had his suspicions that a drama was being enacted in Jacqueline’s heart, a drama of which he himself was the hero.  He amused himself by watching it, though he did nothing to promote it.  He was an artist and a keen and penetrating observer; he employed psychology in the service of his art, and probably to that might have been attributed the individual character of his portraits—­a quality to be found in an equal degree only in those of Ricard.

What particularly interested him at this moment was the assumed indifference of Jacqueline while her father was conducting the negotiation which was of her suggestion.  When they returned to the salon after smoking she pretended not to be the least anxious to know the result of their conversation.  She sat sewing near the lamp, giving all her attention to the piece of lace on which she was working.  Her father made her a sign which meant “He consents,” and then Marien saw that the needle in her fingers trembled, and a slight color rose in her face—­but that was all.  She did not say a word.  He could not know that for a week past she had gone to church every time she took a walk, and had offered a prayer and a candle that her wish might be granted.  How very anxious and excited she had been all that week!  The famous composition of which she had spoken to Giselle, the subject of which had so astonished the young girl brought up by the Benedictine nuns, felt the inspiration of her emotion and excitement.  Jacqueline was in a frame of mind which made reading those three masterpieces by three great poets, and pondering the meaning of their words, very dangerous.  The poems did not affect her with the melancholy they inspire in those who have “lived and loved,” but she was attracted by their tenderness and their passion.  Certain lines she applied to herself—­certain others to another person.  The very word love so often repeated in the verses sent a thrill through all her frame.  She aspired to taste those “intoxicating moments,” those “swift delights,” those “sublime ecstasies,” those “divine transports”—­all the beautiful things, in short, of which the poems spoke, and which were as yet unknown to her.  How could she know them?  How could she, after an experience of sorrow, which seemed to her to be itself enviable, retain such sweet remembrances as the poets described?

“Let us love—­love each other!  Let us hasten to enjoy the passing hour!” so sang the poet of Le Lac.  That passing hour of bliss she thought she had already enjoyed.  She was sure that for a long time past she had loved.  When had that love begun?  She hardly knew.  But it would last as long as she might live.  One loves but once.