"Leave them alone," he answered, "it is so pleasant out of doors; Lison will wait up for them; won't you, Lison?"
The old maid looked up, and answered in her timid voice: "Oh, yes, certainly."
The baron helped his wife to rise, and, tired himself by the heat of the day,
"I will go to bed, too," he said. And he went upstairs with the baroness.
Then Aunt Lison got up, and, leaving her work on the arm of the easy chair, leant out of the window and looked at the glorious night. The two sweethearts were walking backwards and forwards across the grass, silently pressing each other's hands, as they felt the sweet influence of the visible poetry that surrounded them.
Jeanne saw the old maid's profile in the window, with the lighted lamp behind.
"Look," she said, "Aunt Lison is watching us."
"Yes, so she is," answered the vicomte in the tone of one who speaks without thinking of what he is saying; and they continued their slow walk and their dreams of love. But the dew was falling, and they began to feel chilled.
They went into the drawing-room, and found Aunt Lison bending over the knitting she had taken up again; her thin fingers were trembling as if they were very tired. Jeanne went up to her.
The old maid raised her eyes; they were red as if she had been crying, but neither of the lovers noticed it. Suddenly the young man saw that Jeanne's thin slippers were quite wet, and fearing she would catch cold:
"Are not your dear little feet cold?" he asked affectionately.
Aunt Lison's fingers trembled so they could no longer hold the work; her ball of wool rolled across the floor, and, hiding her face in her hands, she began to sob convulsively. For a moment Jeanne and the vicomte stood looking at her in mute surprise, then Jeanne, feeling frightened, knelt down beside her, drew away her hands from her face, and asked in dismay:
"What is it, Aunt Lison? What is the matter with you?"
The poor, old maid, trembling all over, stammered out in a broken voice:
"When he asked you--'Are--are not your dear little feet--cold?'--I--I thought how no one had--had ever said anything like that to me."
Jeanne felt full of pity for her aunt, but it seemed very funny to think of anyone making love to Lison, and the vicomte turned his head away to hide his laughter. Lison started up, left her wool on the ground and her knitting on the armchair, and abruptly leaving the room, groped her way up the dark staircase to her bedroom.