Her only answer was a pressure of the hand. Inspired with greater happiness, perhaps, by this little signal than he would have been by a tender word, his heart relieved of the care that had oppressed it until now, he could at last find words to express his feelings. He told her, slowly, in words that were almost solemn, that he had given her his life forever that she might do with it what she would. She was grateful; but like the child of modern scepticism that she was and willing captive of her iconoclastic irony, she smiled as she replied: "I would not make such a long engagement as that if I were you!" He turned and faced her, and, looking her straight in the eyes with that penetrating look which is like a touch, repeated what he had just said at greater length, in a more ardent, more poetical form of expression. All that he had written in so many burning letters he now expressed with such a fervor of conviction that it seemed to her as she listened that she was sitting in a cloud of incense. She felt herself caressed in every fiber of her feminine nature by his adoring words more deeply than ever before. When he had ended she simply said: "And I, too, love you dearly!" They were still holding each other's hand, like young folks walking along a country road, and watching with vague eyes the little steamboats plying on the river. They were alone by themselves in Paris, in the great confused uproar, whether remote or near at hand, that surrounded them in this city full of all the life of all the world, more alone than they had been on the summit of their aerial tower, and for some seconds they were quite oblivious that there existed on earth any other beings but their two selves. She was the first to recover the sensation of reality and of the flight of time. "Shall we see each other again to-morrow?" she said. He reflected for an instant, and abashed by what he had in mind to ask of her: "Yes--yes--certainly," he replied. "But--shall we never meet in any other place? This place is unfrequented. Still--people may come here." She hesitated. "You are right. Still it is necessary also that you should not show yourself for at least two weeks yet, so that people may think that you are away traveling. It will be very nice and mysterious for us to meet and no one know that you are in Paris. Meanwhile, however, I cannot receive you at my house, so--I don't see----" He felt that he was blushing, and continued: "Neither can I ask you to come to my house. Is there nothing else--is there no other place?" Being a woman of practical sense, logical and without false modesty, she was neither surprised nor shocked. "Why, yes," she said, "only we must have time to think it over." "I have thought it over." "What! so soon?" "Yes, Madame." "Well?" "Are you acquainted with the Rue des Vieux-Champs at Auteuil?" "No." "It runs into the Rue Tournemine and the Rue Jean-de-Saulge." "Well?"