allowed her to do what she liked. She was twenty years old.
Meanwhile, M. Hervart was looking for Rose. He did not dare call her, because he did not know what name to use. In conversation he said: You; before strangers, Mademoiselle; in his own mind, Rose.
"She was much nicer two years ago. She listened to what I had to say. She obeyed me. She caught insects for me. This is the critical moment now. If we were bugs..."
He went on:
"Whether it's women or beetles, love is their whole life. Bugs die as soon as their work is done, and women begin dying from the moment of their first kiss.... They also begin living. It's pretty, the spectacle of these girls who want to live, want to fulfill their destiny, and don't know how, and go sobbing through the darkness, looking for their way. I expect I shall find her crying."
Rose, indeed, had just finished wiping her eyes. They were blue when she was sad and greenish when she laughed.
"You've been crying. Did you prick your self coming through this holly? I did too."
