"I must have done with it. I will speak to Des Boys this evening, to-morrow morning at latest.... He will laugh at me. But that's all. He will have to give in afterwards. My will, Rose's will.... I shall carry her off and take her to Paris. Is it my first adventure? If it's the last it will at least be a splendid one." He pictured to himself all the details of this romantic enterprise. He would, of course, reserve a compartment in the train so as to insure a propitious solitude. It would not be at night, but in the evening. After an amusing little supper and some thrilling kisses, Rose would go to sleep on his shoulder and from time to time he would touch her breast, kiss her eyelids. She would be, at this moment, at once his wife and his mistress, the woman who has given herself, but whom one has not yet taken, a beautiful fruit to be looked at and delicately handled before it is at last relished. What an exquisite creature of love she would be. How docile her curiosity! What a pupil, like clay the hands of the sculptor. An elopement? Why not a marriage tour? No, no elopements! no romantic nonsense! Des Boys will give me his daughter when I want.... But suddenly he had a curious vision. He was standing on the platform of Caen station, amusing himself by peeping indiscreetly into the carriages, and what did he see?--Rose and Leonor huddled together, mouth against mouth. The train moved on, and he was left standing there, looking at the red light disappearing in the smoke.... He got up, full of jealousy; he ran, then slowed down, listening for possible words, questioning the silence. Without his knowing exactly why, Rose's laugh, heard through the leaves of the wood, reassured him. He saw Leonor stoop down and rise again holding a little pink flower in his hand. "_Sherardia arvensis_," he said, taking the flower. "It has no business to grow here. Its place is in the field next door. _Arvensis_, you see, _arvensis_. But there are lots of plants that lose their way." "He knows everything," said Rose. "You see, he knows everything." Leonor, who had understood the allusion, did not answer. He walked away, under the pretense of continuing his botanical researches in the wood. "If love were born at this moment in my heart, it would be most untimely, it would have chosen its place very unfortunately. Does he love as he is loved? That is what I should like to know. Is he capable of perseverance? Who knows? It may be, Rose, that you will one day lie weeping in my arms."