Placed as she was in front
of the light, a golden haze shaded the colours of her beautiful hair;
and I lingered in contemplation of the long and graceful curve of her
figure bending over her work. She was sewing in the midst of floods of
stiff white muslin, which formed a chain of snow-clad peaks with blue
reflections around her. I looked at the low-ceilinged room with its
whitewashed wall and its rows of bodices, petticoats and shiny caps
hanging on lines stretched from one side to the other. A grey tom-cat
lay purring on a corner of the table; and, near it, in a well-scrubbed
pot, a pink geranium displayed its sombre leaves and its bright flowers.

Rose was sewing. At regular intervals, her right arm rose, drew out the
thread and returned to the spot whence it started: an even and captive
movement symbolical of the amount of activity permitted to women! But
was she not to choose that movement among all others?

3

We dine in her bedroom. What a surprise her room held in store for me!
Rose had arranged it herself, in harmony with the simplicity which I
loved.

Brightly-painted wooden shelves make patches of colour on the white
walls; the furniture is rustic; and the curtains of white muslin with
mauve spots complete the frank and artless harmony of the room. How
little this was to be expected from Mlle. Coquet's shop!

Then, on Rose's table, the books I gave her fill the place of honour. I
dare say that she never reads them; and yet I am glad to see them here.

Rose goes to and fro between our little table and the kitchen. She looks
pretty, she smiles. The slowness of her movements is no longer
lethargic; it simply exhales an air of repose, a perfume of peace that
suits her beauty. Her eyes have fastened on me at once and, as in the
old days, never leave me.

Is it the tyranny of habit that used to prevent me from reading anything
in them? Now, those eyes that ingenuously drink in my life as the
flowers do the light, those eyes not veiled by any shadow, constantly
bring the tears to mine. She sees this and fondly lays her head on my
shoulder, whispering:

"I did nothing but expect you, darling, only I had given up hoping...."

This term of endearment, which she addresses to me for the first time,
as if, being no longer subject to any effort, she were at last yielding
to the sweets of friendship, this expression and my Christian name,
which she utters lovingly, complete the pleasantness of the evening.

I