Armand did not reply, but under pretence of picking up his opera-glass, which had fallen to the ground, he bent down and took her foot in his hand. Through the silk she could feel a clasp which caused her to blush and cast down her eyelids, as though she were incapable of supporting the emotion that took possession of her. With a rapid gesture she seized a bouquet composed of a spray of fern and a little lily-of-the-valley, which the young baron wore in his button-hole, and slipped her larceny into her bosom. Alfred returned, the curtain rose again, scene succeeded to scene, and act to act, but she was aware of nothing save of the fact that she was almost too happy; and when, on the conclusion of the play, Armand gave her his arm to lead her back to a carriage, she leaned upon this arm with that absolute blending of motion, which is a surer token of love than any other. How gladly she would have had him to take his place beside her! But already he was departing, and she followed him with a prolonged gaze through the crowd. Then the carriage extricated itself from the confusion in the neighbourhood of the theatre. "Good-bye, my love," she said in thought, while her husband took her hand, and said aloud to her: "You are better this evening?" "Yes," she said, freeing her fingers, "but it is the excitement of the play. I need rest so much. I have not slept for the last five nights." Chazel understood only too well what this reply meant. He remained silent in a corner of the carriage. Helen also refrained from speaking. But a plan had already ripened in her head. The very next day, brought by Alfred himself, she would visit their physician, whose consulting day it was. She would enter the doctor's room alone, and relate to him some symptoms or other; then she would say that the physician forbade all intimate relations with her husband until further notice. She was too well acquainted with the species of timid modesty which ruled Alfred not to know that he would pity her without seeking to divine the mystery of suffering with which she would shroud herself. Supported by this plan--which would have been very repugnant to her had it not been calculated to assure the security of her happiness--with what delight did she suffer herself to be overpowered by sleep, by such a sleep as that wherein we appear to sleep with clearness in our dreams! We sleep, and something wakes within us--a happy portion of our spirit--which ceases not to be sensible of the happiness that we shall find again to-morrow on our pillow. Do we not know that we shall learn this happiness anew by merely opening our eyes?