ne talking with Pauline and Jeanne. Why, it
is Henri."

"Yes, yes" Mother Fetu hastened to add as she turned her ferret-like
eyes on the ladies, "it is the good doctor. I have seen him there all
through the service; he has never budged from the pavement; he has
been waiting for you, no doubt. Ah! he's a saint of a man! I swear
that to be the truth in the face of God who hears us. Yes, I know you,
madame; he is a husband who deserves to be happy. May Heaven hearken
to your prayers, may every blessing fall on you! In the name of the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

Amidst the myriad furrows of her face, which was wrinkled like a
withered apple, her little eyes kept gleaming in malicious unrest,
darting a glance now on Juliette, now on Helene, so that it was
impossible to say with any certainty whom she was addressing while
speaking of "the good doctor." She followed them, muttering on without
a stop, mingling whimpering entreaty with devout outbursts.

Henri's reserve alike astonished and moved Helene. He scarcely had the
courage to raise his eyes towards her. On his wife quizzing him about
the opinions which restrained him from entering a church, he merely
explained that to smoke a cigar was his object in coming to meet them;
but Helene understood that he had wished to see her again, to prove to
her how wrong she was in fearing some fresh outrage. Doubtless, like
herself, he had sworn to keep within the limits of reason. She never
questioned whether his sincerity could be real. She simply experienced
a feeling of unhappiness at seeing him unhappy. Thus it came about,
that on leaving them it the Rue Vineuse, she said cheerfully:

"Well, it is settled then; to-morrow at seven."

In this way the old friendship grew closer than ever, and a charming
life began afresh. To Helene it seemed as if Henri had never yielded
to that moment of folly; it was but a dream of hers; each loved the
other, but they would never breathe a word of their love, they were
content with knowing its existence. They spent delicious hours, in
which, without their tongues giving evidence of their passion, they
displayed it constantly; a gesture, an inflexion of the voice
sufficed, ay, even a silence. Everything insensibly tended towards
their love, plunged them more and more deeply into a passion which
they bore away with them whenever they parted, which was ever with
them, which formed, as it were, the only atmosphere they could
breathe. An