ere an offence against some jealous
husband; and hid their feelings from Lucien as though their love in some
way did him a wrong. David, moreover, had no confidence in himself, and
could not believe that Eve could care for him; Eve was a penniless girl,
and therefore shy. A real work-girl would have been bolder; but Eve,
gently bred, and fallen into poverty, resigned herself to her dreary
lot. Diffident as she seemed, she was in reality proud, and would not
make a single advance towards the son of a father said to be rich.
People who knew the value of a growing property, said that the vineyard
at Marsac was worth more than eighty thousand francs, to say nothing of
the traditional bits of land which old Sechard used to buy as they came
into the market, for old Sechard had savings--he was lucky with his
vintages, and a clever salesman. Perhaps David was the only man in
Angouleme who knew nothing of his father's wealth. In David's eyes
Marsac was a hovel bought in 1810 for fifteen or sixteen thousand
francs, a place that he saw once a year at vintage time when his father
walked him up and down among the vines and boasted of an output of wine
which the young printer never saw, and he cared nothing about it.

David was a student leading a solitary life; and the love that gained
even greater force in solitude, as he dwelt upon the difficulties in the
way, was timid, and looked for encouragement; for David stood more in
awe of Eve than a simple clerk of some high-born lady. He was awkward
and ill at ease in the presence of his idol, and as eager to hurry away
as he had been to come. He repressed his passion, and was silent. Often
of an evening, on some pretext of consulting Lucien, he would leave the
Place du Murier and go down through the Palet Gate as far as L'Houmeau,
but at the sight of the green iron railings his heart failed. Perhaps he
had come too late, Eve might think him a nuisance; she would be in bed
by this time no doubt; and so he turned back. But though his great
love had only appeared in trifles, Eve read it clearly; she was proud,
without a touch of vanity in her pride, of the deep reverence in David's
looks and words and manner towards her, but it was the young printer's
enthusiastic belief in Lucien that drew her to him most of all. He had
divined the way to win Eve. The mute delights of this love of theirs
differed from the transports of stormy passion, as wildflowers in
the fields from the brilliant flowers