Love had taken absolute possession of his heart, it had hollowed out its nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever increasing, consumed it.

To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat.

And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was filled with a wild hope.

A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the little house, always so smart and white.

Ah! he knew it well.  Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore.

There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed of China-asters.  In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than once he had caught sight of a crabbed face.

Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern.

What shall he do if Suzanne is there?  Will he dare to look at her?

Yes, he must!  He must read the expression in her look.  And if that look is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop?  Certainly.  Why should he hesitate?  What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young girl?  Is he not her Cure?  More than that, her Confessor.  Her confessor!  Has he still the right to call himself so?  And the weather-beaten soldier, the disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father?  Come, another blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping.  And then, after what he has done, what would he dare to say?  He will pass by therefore rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is enough.

He quickens his step, then he slackens it.  Where will she be.  Here are the old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise.

What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose, and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding?  Oh, that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of love, into that chaste virgin conch.

Now he is near the garden.  His heart is beating.  He looks.  A sound of footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start.  Is it she?

He turns round.

Veronica is behind him.

XLVI.

THE LETTER.

  “Let them take but one step within
  your door.  They will soon have taken
  four.”

  LA FONTAINE (Fables).