To see Deruchette, to see herself, to see her dress, her cap, her
ribbon, which she twined around her finger, was it possible to imagine
it? Was it possible to be thus near her; to hear her breathe? She
breathed! then the stars might breathe also. Gilliatt felt a thrill
through him. He was the most miserable and yet the happiest of men. He
knew not what to do. His delirious joy at seeing her annihilated him.
Was it indeed Deruchette there, and he so near? His thoughts, bewildered
and yet fixed, were fascinated by that figure as by a dazzling jewel. He
gazed upon her neck--her hair. He did not even say to himself that all
that would now belong to him, that before long--to-morrow, perhaps--he
would have the right to take off that cap, to unknot that ribbon. He
would not have conceived for a moment the audacity of thinking even so
far. Touching in idea is almost like touching with the hand. Love was
with Gilliatt like honey to the bear. He thought confusedly; he knew not
what possessed him. The nightingale still sang. He felt as if about to
breathe his life out.

The idea of rising, of jumping over the wall, of speaking to Deruchette,
never came into his mind. If it had he would have turned and fled. If
anything resembling a thought had begun to dawn in his mind, it was
this: that Deruchette was there, that he wanted nothing more, and that
eternity had begun.

A noise aroused them both--her from her reverie--him from his ecstasy.

Some one was walking in the garden. It was not possible to see who was
approaching on account of the trees. It was the footstep of a man.

Deruchette raised her eyes.

The steps drew nearer, then ceased. The person walking had stopped. He
must have been quite near. The path beside which was the bench wound
between two clumps of trees. The stranger was there in the alley between
the trees, at a few paces from the seat.

Accident had so placed the branches, that Deruchette could see the
newcomer while Gilliatt could not.

The moon cast on the ground beyond the trees a shadow which reached to
the garden seat.

Gilliatt could see this shadow.

He looked at Deruchette.

She was quite pale; her mouth was partly open, as with a suppressed cry
of surprise. She had just half risen from the bench, and sunk again upon
it. There was in her attitude a mixture of fascination with a desire to
fly. Her surprise was enchantment mingled with timidity. She had upon
her lips almost the light of a smile,