The carriage drove past the windows, and lunch ended almost without further conversation. Rose had become dreamy. M. Hervart's conclusion was: "Our affair has made the most terrifying progress in these few seconds." CHAPTER III He went on with his meditations in the little wagonette which carried them to Couville station. Rose was sitting opposite; their feet, naturally, came into contact. M. Des Boys, who owned several farms, stopped to examine the state of the crops. In some of the fields the corn had been beaten down. He got up on the box beside the driver to ask him whether it was the same throughout the whole district. He was very disquieted. M. Hervart stretched out his legs, so that he held the girl's knees between his own. She smiled. M. Hervart, a little oppressed by his emotions, dared not speak. He took her hand and kissed it. All of a sudden, Rose exclaimed: "We have forgotten the microscope!" "So we have! our pretext. What will become of us?" "But do we need a pretext, now?" M. Hervart renewed the pressure of his prisoning knees. That was his first answer. "We're conspirators, Rose," he then said. "It's serious." "I hope so." "We have been conspirators for a long time." "Since this morning, yes." She blushed a little. "From that moment," M. Hervart went on, "when you said, 'One must believe.'" "I said what I thought." "It's what I think too." "In this way," he said to himself, "I say what I ought to say without going too far. 'Oh, if only I dared!" Meanwhile, he was disturbed by the thought of the microscope. "I shall buy one," he said, "and leave it with you. It will be of use to me when I come again." "Stop," said Rose; her voice was low, but its tone was violent. "When you talk of coming again, you're talking of going away." M. Hervart had nothing to answer. He got out of the difficulty by renewing the pressure of his legs. They reached the little lonely station. The train came in, and a quarter of an hour later they were in Cherbourg. M. Des Boys at once announced his intention of going to see the museum. He wanted to look at a few masterpieces, he said, so that he might once more compare his own art with that of the great men. M. Hervart protested. For him, a holiday consisted in getting away from museums. Furthermore, he regarded this particular collection, with its list of great names, as being in large part apocryphal. "If the catalogue of the Louvre is false, as it is, what must the catalogue of the Cherbourg museum be like?" he asked. M. Des Boys shrugged his shoulders: "You have lost my esteem." And he affirmed the perfect authenticity of the Van Dycks, Van Eycks, Chardins, Poussins, Murillos, Jordaenses, Ribeiras, Fra Angelicos, Cranachs, Pourbuses and Leonardos which adorned the town hall. "There's no Raphael," said M. Hervart, "and there ought to be a Velasquez and a Titian and a Correggio." M. Des Boys replied sarcastically: "There's a Natural History museum."