He began thinking of that season of Platonic love he had once passed at Versailles with a virtuous woman, and he was frightened; for that passion of light kisses and hand-pressures had undermined him as more violent excesses had never done. "What will become of me?" he thought. "This is a case of acute Platonism, marked by the most decisive symptoms. All or nothing! Otherwise I am a dead man." He looked at Rose, meaning to put on a chilly expression; but those eyes of her looked back at him so sweetly! His thoughts became confused. He felt a desire to lie down in the grass and sleep, and he said so. "All right, lie down and sleep. I'll watch over you and keep the flies away from your eyes and mouth. I'll fan you with this fern." She spoke in a voice that was caressingly passionate. It was like music. M. Hervart woke up and uttered words of love. "I love you, Rose. The touch of your lips has refreshed my blood and brought joy to my heart. When I first touched you, it was as though I were clasping a treasure without price. But tell me, my darling, you won't take back this treasure now you have given it?" M. Hervart was breathing heavily. Rose shook her head and said, "No, I won't take it back;" and to prove that she meant it she leaned towards him, as though offering her bosom; M. Hervart lightly touched the stuff of her blouse with his lips. Seeing her lover's lack of alacrity, Rose, without suspecting the mystery, at least guessed that there was a mystery. "No doubt," she thought, "love needs a rest every now and then. We will go for a little walk and I'll talk to him of flowers and insects. We should do well, perhaps, to go back to the garden, for it would be very annoying if they took it into their heads to come and look for us." They got up and walked round the wood meaning to go straight back to the house. M. Hervart seemed to be in an absent-minded mood. He was holding Rose's hand in his, but he forgot to squeeze it. His thoughts were, none the less, thoughts of love. He looked about him as though he were searching for something. "What are you looking for? Tell me; I'll look too." M. Hervart was looking for a nook. He inspected the dry leaves, peeped into every nook and bower of the wood. But he felt ashamed of his quest. "Yet," he thought, "I must. I love her and these innocent amusements are really too pernicious. Shall I go away? That would be to condemn myself to a melancholy solitude, with, perhaps, bitter consolations. Marry her, then? Certainly, but it can't come off to-morrow, and we are too much aquiver with desire to wait patiently. And suppose, when we are engaged, we have to submit ourselves to the law of the traditional sentimentality.... No, let us be peasants, children of this kindly earth. Let us, like them, make love first, at haphazard, where the paths of the wood lead us; then, when we are certain of the consent of our flesh, we will call our fellow men to witness."