In the tiny square outside a street lamp had been lighted, and its feeble rays came peeping in through the lace curtains at the window.

They caught the dainty silhouette of the young girl, playing with the loose tendrils of her hair around her forehead, and outlining with a thin band of light the contour of neck and shoulder, making the satin of her gown shimmer with an opalescent glow.
Armand rose from his knees.

Her eyes were calling to him, her lips were ready to yield.
"Tu m'aimes ?" he whispered.
And like a tired child she sank upon his breast.
He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips; her skin was fragrant as the flowers of spring, the tears on her cheeks glistened like morning dew.
Aunt Marie came in at last, carrying the lamp.

She found them sitting side by side, like two children, hand in hand, mute with the eloquence which comes from boundless love.

They were under a spell, forgetting even that they lived, knowing nothing except that they loved.
The lamp broke the spell, and Aunt Marie's still trembling voice: "Oh, my dear! how did you manage to rid yourself of those brutes ?" But she asked no other question, even when the lamp showed up quite clearly the glowing cheeks of Jeanne and the ardent eyes of Armand.