“They call you madame, you see.”

“A mistress of a hotel, that is the usual title.  Is it not the custom among the Indians of America?”

“The godmother who took care of you—­you perceive how well I know your biography, my child—­is she dead, then?”

“No, thank Heaven!  She is quite well.”

“She is doubtless now living in Carlsruhe?”

“No, at Brussels.”

“Then why are you here? why have you quitted so kind a friend?”

My catechism, growing thus more and more brutal, might have been prolonged until bedtime, but on the arrival of a new traveler she left me there, with a pen in my hand and a quantity of delicious cobwebs in my head, saying gently, “I will see you this evening, kind friend.”

The same evening, after a botanizing stroll in the adjoining wood—­a treat that my tin box and I had promised each other—­I found myself again with Francine.  Full of curiosity as I was concerning her adventures, I determined that she should direct the conversation herself, and take her own pretty time to tell the more personal parts of the story.

The stage grisette is perpetually exploring the pockets of her apron.  Francine, who wore a roundabout apron of a white and crackling nature, adorned her conversation by attending to the hem of hers.  When she asked about my last interview with her father, she ironed that hem with the nail of her rosy little thumb; when she fell into reminiscences of her mother, she smoothed the apron respectfully and sadly; when she proposed a question or a doubt, she extracted little threads from the seam:  at last, perfectly satisfied with the apron, she laid her two small hands in each other on its dainty snow-bank, and resigned herself to a perfect torrent of remarks about the horse, the van, the little cabin among the roses, the small one-eyed dog and the two chickens.  Conversation, a thing which is manufactured by an American girl, is a thing which takes possession of a French girl.

All the while I remained uninstructed as to why my little Francine had left her protectress, why she was keeping house at Carlsruhe, and on what understanding her customers called her madame.

I was obliged to take next day a long alterative excursion among the trees of the Haardtwald:  in fact, her gentle warmth, her freshness, her nattiness, the very protection she shed over me, were working sad mischief to my peace of mind.  I came upon an old shepherd, who, with his music-book thrown into a bush in front of him, was leaning back against a tree and drawing sweet sounds out of a cornet-a-piston.

“Even so,” I said, “did Stark the Viking hear the notes of the enchanted horn teaching every tree he came to the echo of his true-love’s name.”