“No, you have not been at all nice. I awaited you. You did not come. You have made me unhappy.”
After a moment’s silence, while one heard the low melancholy whistling of asthma in poor Sariette’s bronchial tubes, young Maurice continued insistently:
“You are wrong.”
“Why wrong?”
“Wrong not to do as I ask you.”
“Do you still think so?”
“Certainly.”
“You meant it seriously?”
“As seriously as can be.”
Touched by his assurance of sincere and constant feeling, and thinking she had resisted sufficiently, Gilberte granted to Maurice what she had refused him a fortnight ago.
They slipped into an embrasure of the window, behind an enormous celestial globe whereon were graven the Signs of the Zodiac and the figures of the stars, and there, their gaze fixed on the Lion, the Virgin, and the Scales, in the presence of a multitude of Bibles, before the works of the Fathers, both Greek and Latin, beneath the casts of Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Herodotus, Thucydides, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Cicero, Virgtl, Horace, Seneca, and Epictetus, they exchanged vows of love and a long kiss on the mouth.
