—­Well, there is an impertinence, said Suzanne.  Who can have made her suspect that you were here?

Marcel, for reply, pressed the hand which he was holding.

Finding the gate closed, the servant continued her road, then all at once returned, stopped for a few seconds facing the arbour, and at length disappeared behind the chestnut-trees.

They followed the sound of her footsteps, which was soon lost in the silence, and found themselves alone, hearing nothing but the beatings of their own heart.

—­Let us remain, said Suzanne in a low voice, we must not go out yet.  Really, that is the most impertinent creature I have ever seen.  By what right does she spy on you thus?

—­Dear child, do you not know that these old servants are on the track of every scandal, jealous of all beauty and all virtue.  She will have noticed our frequent interviews, and has imagined a world of iniquities.  Nevertheless, I bless her, yes, I bless her, since I owe to her the joy of finding myself in this tete-a-tete with you.  See, dear child, how strange is destiny, which is none other but the hand of God—­for we must be blind not to recognize in all these things the finger of divine Providence—­it is precisely the efforts made to put an obstacle between us, to prevent us, me from fulfilling my duties of a pastor, you those of a Christian, which have been the cause of our sweet intimacy.  Your father forbids you to assist at the Holy Sacrifice, and you come to me to ask for counsel.  This servant pursues us with her envious hate, and obliges us to take refuge like guilty lovers beneath this dark arbour.  Almighty God, thanks, thanks.  But what a strange situation!  If anyone were to surprise us, the whole world would accuse us, and yet what is surer than our conscience?  You see plainly, dear child, that we cannot separate thus, and that, whatever happens, we must not remain strangers to one another.

Suzanne did not answer, and he, emboldened by this silence, pressed between his the hand which she abandoned to him.

—­I was so much accustomed to see you in our church that, when you ceased to come there, it seemed to me that everything was in mourning.  You were the most charming and the chastest ornament of it.  When I went up into the pulpit, it was for you that I preached, and when I turned towards my flock to bless them, it was you alone, sweet lamb, that I blessed in the name of the Father.  You understand now, why I shall go away enveloped in sorrow.

—­But, sir, I do not deserve the honour which you do me, and I am unworthy to occupy your thoughts in this way.

—­Do not say that, for since I have seen you, you have become, without my knowing how, the joy of my life, the source from which I draw my sweetest and most holy pleasures.  With the memory of you, I lull myself in the Infinite.  I see Heaven and the angels, I dream of Seraphims who resemble you, who bear me on their diaphanous wings into the abode where all is joy and love ... heavenly love, dear Suzanne, love like that of the angels for the Virgin, the mother, eternally pure, of our sweet Saviour.  You see, you have no reasons to be offended with my dreams.  You are not offended at them, are you?