of the ladies.  At times she was thrilled with intense pleasure as she listened to the phrases which he repeated to her with a swagger of the shoulders, phrases full of incomprehensible words that inflamed her cheeks with a flush of pride.  His uniform no longer sat awkwardly on him; he swung his arms to and fro with a knowing air, and had an especially noticeable style of wearing his shako on the back of his head, with the result that his round face with its tip of a nose became extremely prominent, while his headgear swayed gently with the rolling of his body.  Besides, he was growing quite free and easy, quaffed his dram, and ogled the fair sex.  With his sneering ways and affectation of reticence, he now doubtless knew a great deal more than she did.  Paris was fast taking all the remaining rust off him; and Rosalie stood before him, delighted yet angry, undecided whether to scratch his face or let him give utterance to foolish prattle.

Zephyrin, meanwhile, raking away, had turned the corner of the path.  He was now hidden by a big spindle-tree, and was darting side-glances at Rosalie, luring her on against her will with the strokes of his rake.  When she had got near him, he pinched her roughly.

“Don’t cry out; that’s only to show you how I love you!” he said in a husky whisper.  “And take that over and above.”

So saying he kissed her where he could, his lips lighting somewhere on her ear.  Then, as Rosalie gave him a fierce nip in reply, he retaliated by another kiss, this time on her nose.  Though she was well pleased, her face turned fiery-red; she was furious that Jeanne’s presence should prevent her from giving him a box on the ear.

“I have pricked my finger,” she declared to Jeanne as she returned to her, by way of explaining the exclamation that escaped her lips.

However, betwixt the spare branches of the spindle-tree the child had seen the incident.  Amid the surrounding greenery the soldier’s red trousers and greyish shirt were clearly discernible.  She slowly raised her eyes to Rosalie, and looked at her for a moment, while the maid blushed the more.  Then Jeanne’s gaze fell to the ground again, and she gathered another handful of pebbles, but lacked the will or strength to play with them, and remained in a dreamy state, with her hands resting on the warm ground, amidst the vibrations of the sunrays.  Within her a wave of health was swelling and stifling her.  The trees seemed to take Titanic shape, and the air was redolent of the perfume of roses.  In wonder and delight, she dreamt of all sorts of vague things.

“What are you thinking of, mademoiselle?” asked Rosalie uneasily.

“I don’t know—­of nothing,” was Jeanne’s reply.  “Yes, I do know.  You see, I should like to live to be very old.”

However, she could not explain these words.  It was an idea, she said, that had come into her head.  But in the evening, after dinner, as her dreamy fit fell on her again, and her mother inquired the cause, she suddenly put the question: