She blamed herself for loving him too much; begged him to come to her only when he could do so without difficulty.
Wait?
indeed she could wait! In future, she should know how to sacrifice her enjoyments.

Wishing to be his stepping-stone was she really an obstacle?
She wept with despair.
"Women," she said, with tears in her eyes, "can only love; men act; they have a thousand ways in which they are bound to act.

But we can only think, and pray, and worship." A love that had sacrificed so much for her sake deserved a recompense.
She looked about her like a nightingale descending from a leafy covert to drink at a spring, to see if she were alone in the solitude, if the silence hid no witness; then she raised her head to Raoul, who bent his own, and let him take one kiss, the first and the only one that she ever gave in secret, feeling happier at that moment than she had felt in five years.

Raoul thought all his toils well-paid.

They both walked forward they scarcely knew where, but it was on the road to Auteuil; presently, however, they were forced to return and find their carriages, pacing together with the rhythmic step well-known to lovers.