And then it happened as in all their meetings.
She suddenly appeared as if she had fallen from the sky or risen up from
the ground, like an apparition. A cough, a slight rustling of footsteps,
and as he turned, Julio almost collided with her.
"Marguerite! Oh, Marguerite!" . . .
It was she, and yet he was slow to recognize her. He felt a certain
strangeness in seeing in full reality the countenance which had occupied
his imagination for three months, each time more spirituelle and shadowy
with the idealism of absence. But his doubts were of short duration.
Then it seemed as though time and space were eliminated, that he had
not made any voyage, and but a few hours had intervened since their last
interview.
Marguerite divined the expansion which might follow Julio's
exclamations, the vehement hand-clasp, perhaps something more, so she
kept herself calm and serene.
"No; not here," she said with a grimace of repugnance. "What a
ridiculous idea for us to have met here!"
They were about to seat themselves on the iron chairs, in the shadow of
some shrubbery, when she rose suddenly. Those who were passing along the
boulevard might see them by merely casting their eyes toward the
garden. At this time, many of her friends might be passing through the
neighborhood because of its proximity to the big shops. . . . They,
therefore, sought refuge at a corner of the monument, placing themselves
between it and the rue des Mathurins.
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