the fugitive flowers, laid them all carefully by the others on the side of the fountain, bowed respectfully and retraced his steps down the walk without renewing his unanswered question.  I was, without knowing why, completely reassured; there was in his look such high-toned loyalty, in his manner such perfect distinction, and a sort of precaution so delicately mysterious, that I felt confidence in him.  I thought, even if he does know my name it will make no difference—­for he would never mention having met me—­my secret is safe with a man of his character!  You need not laugh at me for prematurely deciding upon his character,... for my surmises proved correct!

The dinner hour was drawing near, and I hurried back to the chateau to dress.  I was compelled, in spite of myself, to look attractive, on account of having to put on a lovely dress that the treacherous Blanchard had spread out on the bed with the determination that I should wear it; protesting that it was a blessed thing she had brought this one, as there was not another one fit for me to appear in before Mad. de Meilhan’s guests.  It was an India muslin trimmed with twelve little flounces edged with exquisite Valenciennes lace; the waist was made of alternate tucks and insertion, and trimmed with lace to match the skirt.  This dress was unsuitable to the humble Madame Guerin—­it would be imprudent to appear in it.  How indignant and angry I was with poor Blanchard!  I scolded her all the time she was assisting me to put it on!  Oh! since then how sincerely have I forgiven her!  She had brought me a fashionable sash to wear with the dress, but I resisted the temptation, and casting aside the elegant ribbon, I put on an old lilac belt and descended to the parlor where the company were assembled.

The first person I saw, on entering the room, was the young man I had met by the fountain.  His presence disconcerted me.  Mad. de Meilhan relieved my embarrassment by saying:  “Ah! here you are! we were just speaking of you.  I wish to introduce to you my dear Don Quixote,” I turned my head towards the other end of the room where Edgar was talking to several persons, thinking that Don Quixote was one of the number; but Mad. de Meilhan introduced the young man of the fountain, calling him M. de Villiers:  he was Don Quixote.

He addressed some polite speech to me, but this time he called me madame, and in uttering this word there was a tone of sadness that deeply touched me, and the earnest look with which he regarded me I can never forget—­it seemed to say, I know your history, I know you are unhappy, I know this unhappiness is unjustly inflicted upon you, and you arouse my tenderest sympathy.  I assure you, my dear Valentine, that his look expressed all this, and much more that I refrain from telling you, because I know you will laugh at me.

Madame de Meilhan having joined us, he went over to Edgar.

“What do you think of her?” asked Edgar, who did not know that I was listening.