"I will escort you," said he.
She declined his offer. He insisted: "Why do you not want me? You wound me deeply. Do not let me feel that I am not forgiven. You see that I am calm."
She replied: "You cannot leave your guests thus."
He smiled: "Bah! I shall be absent twenty minutes. No one will even notice it; if you refuse me, you will break my heart."
"Very well," she whispered, "I will accept."
When they were seated in the carriage, he seized her hand, and kissing it passionately said: "I love you, I love you. Let me tell it to you. I will not touch you. I only wish to repeat that I love you."
She stammered: "After what you promised me--it is too bad--too bad."
He seemed to make a great effort, then he continued in a subdued voice: "See, how I can control myself--and yet--let me only tell you this--I love you--yes, let me go home with you and kneel before you five minutes to utter those three words and gaze upon your beloved face."
She suffered him to take her hand and replied in broken accents: "No, I cannot--I do not wish to. Think of what my servants, my daughters, would say--no--no--it is impossible."
He continued: "I cannot live without seeing you; whether it be at your house or elsewhere, I must see you for only a moment each day that I may touch your hand, breathe the air stirred by your gown, contemplate the outlines of your form, and see your beautiful eyes."
She listened tremblingly to the musical language of love, and made answer: "No, it is impossible. Be silent!"
He spoke very low; he whispered in her ear, comprehending that it was necessary to win that simple woman gradually, to persuade her to appoint a meeting where she willed at first, and later on where he willed.
"Listen: I must see you! I will wait at your door like a beggar. If you do not come down, I will come to you, but I shall see you to- morrow."
She repeated: "No, do not come. I shall not receive you. Think of my daughters!"
"Then tell me where I can meet you--in the street--it matters not where--at any hour you wish--provided that I can see you. I will greet you; I will say, I love you; and then go away."
She hesitated, almost distracted. As the coupe stopped at the door, she whispered hastily: "I will be at La Trinite to-morrow, at half past three."
After alighting, she said to her coachman: "Take M. du Roy home."
When he returned, his wife asked: "Where have you been?"
He replied in a low voice: "I have been to send an important telegram."
Mme. de Marelle approached him: "You must take me home, Bel-Ami; you know that I only dine so far from home on that condition." Turning to Madeleine, she asked: "You are not jealous?"
Mme. du Roy replied slowly: "No, not at all."
The guests departed. Clotilde, enveloped in laces, whispered to Madeleine at the door: "Your dinner was perfect. In a short while you will have the best political salon in Paris."
When she was alone with Georges, she said: "Oh, my darling Bel-Ami, I love you more dearly every day."
The cab rolled on, and Georges' thoughts were with Mme. Walter.
CHAPTER XII.
A MEETING AND THE RESULT
The July sun shone upon the Place de la Trinite, which was almost deserted. Du Roy drew out his watch. It was only three o'clock: he was half an hour too early. He laughed as he thought of the place of meeting. He entered the sacred edifice of La Trinite; the coolness within was refreshing. Here and there an old woman kneeled at prayer, her face in her hands. Du Roy looked at his watch again. It was not yet a quarter past three. He took a seat, regretting that he could not smoke. At the end of the church near the choir; he could hear the measured tread of a corpulent man whom he had noticed when he entered. Suddenly the rustle of a gown made him start. It was she. He arose and advanced quickly. She did not offer him her hand and whispered: "I have only a few minutes. You must kneel near me that no one will notice us."
She proceeded to a side aisle after saluting the Host on the High Altar, took a footstool, and kneeled down. Georges took one beside it and when they were in the attitude of prayer, he said: "Thank you, thank you. I adore you. I should like to tell you constantly how I began to love you, how I was conquered the first time I saw you. Will you permit me some day to unburden my heart, to explain all to you?"
She replied between her fingers: "I am mad to let you speak to me thus--mad to have come hither--mad to do as I have done, to let you believe that this--this adventure can have any results. Forget it, and never speak to me of it again." She paused.
He replied: "I expect nothing--I hope nothing--I love you--whatever you may do, I will repeat it so often, with so much force and ardor that you will finally understand me, and reply: 'I love you too.'"
He felt her frame tremble as she involuntarily repeated: "I love you too."
He was overcome by astonishment.
"Oh, my God!" she continued incoherently, "Should I say that to you? I feel guilty, despicable--I--who have two daughters--but I cannot-- cannot--I never thought--it was stronger than I--listen--listen--I have never loved--any other--but you--I swear it--I have loved you a year in secret--I have suffered and struggled--I can no longer; I love you." She wept and her bowed form was shaken by the violence of her emotion.
Georges murmured: "Give me your hand that I may touch, may press it."
She slowly took her hand from her face, he seized it saying: "I should like to drink your tears!"
Placing the hand he held upon his heart he asked: "Do you feel it beat?"
In a few moments the man Georges had noticed before passed by them. When Mme. Walter heard him near her, she snatched her fingers from Georges's clasp and covered her face with them. After the man had disappeared, Du Roy asked, hoping for another place of meeting than La Trinite: "Where shall I see you to-morrow?"
She did not reply; she seemed transformed into a statue of prayer. He continued: "Shall I meet you to-morrow at Park Monceau?"
She turned a livid face toward him and said unsteadily: "Leave me-- leave me now--go--go away--for only five minutes--I suffer too much near you. I want to pray--go. Let me pray alone--five minutes--let me ask God--to pardon me--to save me--leave me--five minutes."
She looked so pitiful that he rose without a word and asked with some hesitation: "Shall I return presently?"
She nodded her head in the affirmative and he left her. She tried to pray; she closed her eyes in order not to see Georges. She could not pray; she could only think of him. She would rather have died than have fallen thus; she had never been weak. She murmured several words of supplication; she knew that all was over, that the struggle was in vain. She did not however wish to yield, but she felt her weakness. Some one approached with a rapid step; she turned her head. It was a priest. She rose, ran toward him, and clasping
