but simply gazing vaguely, breathing in the beauty of the evening in a
state of delicious contentment; Jeanne had one hand on the seat and
her neighbor's finger touched it as if by accident; she did not move;
she was surprised, happy, though embarrassed at this slight contact.

When she reached home that evening and went to her room, she felt
strangely disturbed, and so affected that the slightest thing impelled
her to weep. She looked at her clock, imagining that the little bee on
the pendulum was beating like a heart, the heart of a friend; that it
was aware of her whole life, that with its quick, regular tickings it
would accompany her whole life; and she stopped the golden fly to
press a kiss on its wings. She would have kissed anything, no matter
what. She remembered having hidden one of her old dolls of former days
at the bottom of a drawer; she looked for it, took it out, and was
delighted to see it again, as people are to see loved friends; and
pressing it to her heart, she covered its painted cheeks and curly wig
with kisses. And as she held it in her arms, she thought:

Can _he_ be the husband promised through a thousand secret
voices, whom a superlatively good Providence had thus thrown across
her path? Was he, indeed, the being created for her--the being to whom
she would devote her existence? Were they the two predestined beings
whose affection, blending in one, would beget love?

She did not as yet feel that tumultuous emotion, that mad enchantment,
those deep stirrings which she thought were essential to the tender
passion; but it seemed to her she was beginning to fall in love, for
she sometimes felt a sudden faintness when she thought of him, and she
thought of him incessantly. His presence stirred her heart; she
blushed and grew pale when their eyes met, and trembled at the sound