To talk of love, they say, is to make love.  We rarely spoke of it.  Every time I happened to touch the subject Madame Pierson led the conversation to some other topic.  I did not discern her motive, but it was not prudery; it seemed to me that at such times her face took on a stern aspect, and a wave of feeling, even of suffering, passed over it.  As I had never questioned her about her past life and was unwilling to do so, I respected her obvious wishes.

Sunday there was dancing in the village; she was almost always there.  On those occasions her toilet, although quite simple, was more elegant than usual; there was a flower in her hair, a bright ribbon, or some such bagatelle; but there was something youthful and fresh about her.  The dance, which she loved for itself as an amusing exercise, seemed to inspire her with a frolicsome gayety.  Once launched on the floor it seemed to me she allowed herself more liberty than usual, that there was an unusual familiarity.  I did not dance, being still in mourning, but I managed to keep near her, and seeing her in such good humor, I was often tempted to confess my love.

But for some strange reason, whenever I thought of it, I was seized with an irresistible feeling of fear; the idea of an avowal was enough to render me serious in the midst of gayety.  I conceived the idea of writing to her, but burned the letters before they were half finished.

That evening I dined with her, and looked about me at the many evidences of a tranquil life; I thought of the quiet life that I was leading, of my happiness since I had known her, and said to myself:  “Why ask for more?  Does not this suffice?  Who knows, perhaps God has nothing more for you?  If I should tell her that I love her, what would happen?  Perhaps she would forbid me the pleasure of seeing her.  Would I, in speaking the words, make her happier than she is to-day?  Would I be happier myself?”

I was leaning on the piano, and as I indulged in these reflections sadness took possession of me.  Night was coming on and she lighted a candle; while returning to her seat she noticed a tear in my eye.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

I turned aside my head.

I sought an excuse, but could find none; I was afraid to meet her glance.  I arose and stepped to the window.  The air was balmy, the moon was rising beyond those lindens where I had first met her.  I fell into a profound revery; I even forgot that she was present and, extending my arms toward heaven, a sob welled up from my heart.

She arose and stood behind me.

“What is it?” she again asked.

I replied that the sight of that valley stretching out beneath us had recalled my father’s death; I took leave of her and went out.

Why I decided to silence my love I can not say.  Nevertheless, instead of returning home, I began to wander about the woods like a fool.  Whenever I found a bench I sat down only to rise precipitately.  Toward midnight I approached Madame Pierson’s house; she was at the window.  Seeing her there I began to tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but I was fascinated; I advanced gently and sadly and sat down beneath her window.