as death, hid his face with his hands, and knew not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the sight of this confusion, burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter; “You put me in mind,” said he, at last, “of one of those ninnies of lovers on the stage, who throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses, as if they were idols.  Come, my lad, embrace your betrothed—­exchange rings—­and long live joy, for it costs nothing.”  The words “exchange rings” restored Henri to his senses, for he thought he beheld his beloved Louise, amid her tears, softly exclaim, “Dear Henri, what will become of me without you?” And this ring, too, which was asked from him, was the self-same one that he had received from her!—­He immediately addressed Gerval in a firm, yet touching, tone of voice, and, having thanked him, told him that he should never forget his friendship and his kind intentions, that he should always love Annette as a sister, but that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own native place.  He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed her the ring, about which she had teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man’s reproaches on her.  These reproaches all fell on him; he bore them, however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was “a good sort of fellow,” was, in the end, affected by it.  “Go, then, and marry your betrothed,” said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; “since it is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better.  I must say, I shall regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval and his daughter.”

Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea of having bidden Annette adieu for ever.  During the four or five first days, the young traveller was pensive enough:  Annette’s smiling countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise—­“Annette will console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me?  Oh, yes!—­she is so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity, when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I was placed.”  Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily, and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with the sweetest reminiscences.  It was just the beginning of May:  each lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one’s door.  Henri thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise, and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering.  Oh! could he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that