—­The garden? said Suzanne, alarmed afresh, and ever feeling the fixed and scrutinizing look dwelling upon her.  No doubt, it is a thief.  No, father, no, I have heard nothing.

—­I have several reasons for believing that it is not a thief; thieves take more precautions; this one walked heavily in my asparagus-bed.

—­Ah, what a pity!  In the asparagus-bed!  He has crushed some, no doubt...

—­Yes, in the asparagus-bed.  The mark of his feet is distinctly visible.

Suzanne could contain herself no longer.  Her self-possession deserted her, and she felt that her strength was going also.  She believed that her father knew all, she saw herself lost, and, to conceal her shame and hide her terror, she buried herself under the bed-clothes, sobbing, and saying: 

—­Ah, papa!  Ah, papa!

The old soldier mistook her terror, her despair and her tears.

—­Come, he cried, confound it, Suzanne, are you mad?  Don’t cry like this, little girl, don’t cry like this, like a fool:  I only wanted to know if you had heard anything.

—­No, father, sobbed Suzanne under her bed-clothes.

—­You did not hear him?  Well! very good.  That is all, confound it.  Another time we will keep our eyes open, that is all.

But the shock had been too great, and Suzanne continued to utter sobs; she decided, however, to show her face all bathed in tears, and said to her father in a reproachful tone: 

—­And besides I did not know what you meant with your night-robber and your asparagus-bed; I was fast asleep, and you woke me up with a start to tell me that.

—­True, I have been rather abrupt, I was wrong; well, don’t let us talk about it any more, hang it.

But Suzanne, having recovered herself, wanted to enjoy her triumph to the end.

—­I don’t know what you could have meant, she added still in tears, by coming and telling me in an angry tone that a man had been walking in your asparagus, as if it were my fault.

—­It is true nevertheless, Suzanne.  It is quite plain.  I arrived this morning quite dusty from my journey, and went down into the garden very quietly as I usually do, thinking of nothing, when all at once I stopped.  What did I behold? ... footsteps, child, a man’s footsteps, right in the middle of my borders.  “Hang it,” I cried, “here is a blackguard who makes himself at home.”  I followed their track, which led me to the wall of the house and right up to the stair-case.  That was rather bad, you know.  There was still some fresh soil on the steps.  Good Heavens!  I asked myself then what it meant, and I came to you to learn.

—­To me, father.  But I know no more about it than you do.  Why do you suppose that I know more about it than you?

Durand had great confidence in his daughter:  he knew her to be giddy and frivolous, but he did not suppose for an instant her giddiness and frivolity amounted to the forgetfulness of duty.