Nor did she see him the next day. That night, she had a touch of fever and her mind wandered a little, mingling the picture of Guillaume with that of Mlle. Charmeron. She laughed merrily at all this on waking. Nothing could touch her faith in her lover. She was as sure of him as of herself. She rose in good spirits, resolved to be happy came what might. And she was happy: a plucky creature judging others by her own lofty standards, whose nerves and woman’s instinct may be alarmed for a moment, without allowing a breath to disturb the serenity of her soul. She played and sang until lunch-time. After lunch, she strolled in her garden and picked some flowers. When she went in, she found Guillaume waiting for her in the drawing-room: “You ... you ...!” she murmured, half-swooning with emotion. She was obliged to sit down and they remained at some distance from each other, not daring to raise their eyes. It seemed to Gilberte as though her whole life would not be enough to take in all the joy that wrapped her round. How right had she been to be happy in spite of all things and to prepare herself for this greater happiness, which she could never have borne, had she been sad and suspicious. Guillaume asked: “Did you not meet my mother? She is looking for you in the garden.” “Is your mother here?” “Oh, Gilberte, would I have come without her, when I would not even go over there, among the rocks, for fear of displeasing you?” She recalled her disappointment of the last evening and the evening before and was on the point of accusing herself ... but of what? Had she lent a willing ear to the calumnies of the town? She said, simply: “I am glad of what you have done for Mme. de la Vaudraye.” “What have I done?” “Was it not a sacrifice to be at her parties?” He went up to Gilberte: “A sacrifice? Not at all.... Ah, that’s because you don’t know what has happened during the last few days!... Why, I am prepared to do all that she wishes and to take an interest in all that interests her and to like everything that she likes!... If you only knew, Gilberte.... Listen ... or rather, no, I prefer that she should tell you....” “Oh,” cried Gilberte, “if they are hopeful words, precious words, why not say them yourself, Guillaume? Will they not be sweeter if I hear them from your lips? Speak, Guillaume ... I want them to be associated in my memory with the sound of your voice ... please, please....” She besought him with her gentle, loving smile. He at once said: “Very well, Gilberte, I will.” He was interrupted by Adèle, bringing in a letter on a tray. Gilberte took the letter and, while the servant was leaving the room, mechanically cast her eyes upon the postmark. A cry escaped her: “Guillaume!” Her fingers trembled. She could only whisper: “A letter from Dieppe ... from my solicitor.... Oh, I was waiting for it so anxiously!... Think, Guillaume: it brings me a name ... nothing can separate us now....”