th that discreet luminary
peering at them through the gaps in the big trees. Albine said that
the moon was surely following them. The night was balmy, warm too with
stars. Far away a long murmur rose from the forest trees, and Serge
listened, thinking: 'They are talking of us.'

When they reached the parterre, they passed through an atmosphere of
sweetest perfumes; the perfume of flowers at night, which is richer,
more caressing than by day, and seems like the very breath of slumber.

'Good night, Serge.'

'Good night, Albine.'

They clasped each other by the hand on the landing of the first floor,
without entering the room where they usually wished each other good
night. They did not kiss. But Serge, when he was alone, remained seated
on the edge of his bed, listening to Albine's every movement in the room
above. He was weary with happiness, a happiness that benumbed his limbs.

XII

For the next few days Albine and Serge experienced a feeling of
embarrassment. They avoided all allusion to their walk beneath
the trees. They had not again kissed each other, or repeated their
confession of love. It was not any feeling of shame which had sealed
their lips, but rather a fear of in any way spoiling their happiness.
When they were apart, they lived upon the dear recollection of love's
awakening, plunged into it, passed once more through the happy hours
which they had spent, with their arms around each other's waist, and
their faces close together. It all ended by throwing them both into a
feverish state. They looked at each other with heavy eyes, and talked,
in a melancholy mood, of things that did not interest them in the least.
Then, after a long interval of silence, Serge would say to Albine in a
tone full of anxiety: 'You are ill?'

But she shook her head as she answered, 'No, no. It is you who are not
well; your hands are burning.'

The thought of the park filled them with vague uneasiness which they
could not understand. They felt that danger lurked for them in some
by-path, and would seize them and do them hurt. They never spoke about
these disquieting thoughts, but certain timid glances revealed to them
the mutual anguish which held them apart as though they were foes. One
morning, however, Albine ventured, after much hesitation, to say to
Serge: 'It is wrong of you to keep always indoors. You will fall ill
again.'

Serge laughed in rather an embarrassed way. 'Bah!' he muttered, 'we have
been everyw