My burning gaze fascinated her; she sat motionless under my glance.  I felt my hope sparkle in my eyes; her eyelids slowly drooped; her arms sank at her side; her will succumbed to mine; aware of her growing weakness, she made a final effort, covered her eyes with her hand, and remained several minutes in that attitude in order to recover from the radiations of my will.

When she had, in a measure, recovered her self-possession, she turned her head towards the river-bank and called my attention to the charming effect of a cottage embosomed in trees, from which rickety steps, moss-grown and picturesquely studded with flowers, led down to the river.  One of Isabey’s delicious water-colors, dropped here without his signature.  Louise—­for art, no matter how humble, always expands the mind—­has a taste for the beauties of nature, wanting in nearly her whole sex.  A flower-stand filled with roses best pleases the majority of women, who cultivate a love of flowers in order to provoke anacreontic and obsolete comparisons from their antiquated admirers.

The banks of the Seine are truly enchanting.  The graceful hills are studded with trees and waving corn-fields; here and there a rock peeps picturesquely forth; cottages and distant chateaux are betrayed by their glittering slate roofs; islets as wild as those of the South Sea rise on the bosom of the waters like verdure-clad rafts, and no Captain Cook has ever mentioned these Otaheites a half-day’s journey from Paris.

Louise intelligently and feelingly admired the shading of the foliage, the water rippled by a slight breeze, the rapid flight of the kingfisher, the languid swaying to and fro of the water-lily, the little forget-me-nots opening their timid blue eyes to the morning sun, and all the thousand and one beauties dotted along the river’s bank.  I let her steep her soul in nature’s loveliness, which could only teach her to love.

In about four hours we reached the Andelys, and after a light lunch of fresh eggs, cream, strawberries and cherries, we began the ascent to the fortress of the brave king Richard.

Alfred got along famously with Madame Taverneau, having completely dazzled her by an account of his high social acquaintance.  During the voyage he had repeated more names than can be found in the Royal Almanac.  The good post-mistress listened with respectful deference, delighted at finding herself in company with such a highly connected individual.  Alfred, who is not accustomed, among us, to benevolent listeners, gave himself up to the delight of being able to talk without fear of interruption from jests and ironical puns.  They had charmed each other.

The stronghold of Richard Coeur-de-Lion recalls, by its situation and architecture, the castles of the Rhine.  The stone-work is so confounded with the rock that it is impossible to say where nature’s work ends or man’s work begins.