She was uttering no untruth.  It was during the lengthy periods of silence that she experienced most delight in being there.  With her head bent over her work, only lifting her eyes at long intervals to exchange with the doctor those interminable looks that riveted their hearts the closer, she willingly surrendered herself to the egotism of her emotion.  Between herself and him, she now confessed it, there existed a secret sentiment, a something very sweet—­all the sweeter because no one in the world shared it with them.  But she kept her secret with a tranquil mind, her sense of honor quite unruffled, for no thought of evil ever disturbed her.  How good he was to his wife and child!  She loved him the more when he made Lucien jump or kissed Juliette on the cheek.  Since she had seen him in his own home their friendship had greatly increased.  She was now as one of the family; she never dreamt that the intimacy could be broken.  And within her own breast she called him Henri—­naturally, too, from hearing Juliette address him so.  When her lips said “Sir,” through all her being “Henri” was re-echoed.

One day the doctor found Helene alone under the elms.  Juliette now went out nearly every afternoon.

“Hello! is my wife not with you?” he exclaimed.

“No, she has left me to myself,” she answered laughingly.  “It is true you have come home earlier than usual.”

The children were playing at the other end of the garden.  He sat down beside her.  Their tete-a-tete produced no agitation in either of them.  For nearly an hour they spoke of all sorts of matters, without for a moment feeling any desire to allude to the tenderness which filled their hearts.  What was the good of referring to that?  Did they not well know what might have been said?  They had no confession to make.  Theirs was the joy of being together, of talking of many things, of surrendering themselves to the pleasure of their isolation without a shadow of regret, in the very spot where every evening he embraced his wife in her presence.

That day he indulged in some jokes respecting her devotion to work.  “Do you know,” said he, “I do not even know the color of your eyes?  They are always bent on your needle.”

She raised her head and looked straight into his face, as was her custom.  “Do you wish to tease me?” she asked gently.

But he went on.  “Ah! they are grey—­grey, tinged with blue, are they not?”

This was the utmost limit to which they dared go; but these words, the first that had sprung to his lips, were fraught with infinite tenderness.  From that day onwards he frequently found her alone in the twilight.  Despite themselves, and without their having any knowledge of it, their intimacy grew apace.  They spoke in an altered voice, with caressing inflections, which were not apparent when others were present.  And yet, when Juliette came in, full of gossip about her day in town, they could keep up the talk they had already begun without even troubling themselves to draw their chairs apart.  It seemed as though this lovely springtide and this garden, with its blossoming lilac, were prolonging within their hearts the first rapture of love.