dressed, with modest bearing and manner, and able to express herself well, Michaud was soon in love with her,—­all the more when he found that his sweetheart’s dowry would one day be considerable.  The obstacles came from the countess, who could not bear to part with so invaluable a maid; but when Montcornet explained to her the affairs at Les Aigues, she gave way, and the marriage was no longer delayed, except to obtain the consent of the parents, which, of course, was quickly given.

Michaud, like his general, looked upon his wife as a superior being, to whom he owed military obedience without a single reservation.  He found in the peace of his home and his busy life out-of-doors the elements of a happiness soldiers long for when they give up their profession,—­enough work to keep his body healthy, enough fatigue to let him know the charms of rest.  In spite of his well-known intrepidity, Michaud had never been seriously wounded, and he had none of those physical pains which often sour the temper of veterans.  Like all really strong men, his temper was even; his wife, therefore, loved him utterly.  From the time they took up their abode in the pavilion, this happy home was the scene of a long honey-moon in harmony with Nature and with the art whose creations surrounded them,—­a circumstance rare indeed!  The things about us are seldom in keeping with the condition of our souls!

The picture was so pretty that the countess stopped short and pointed it out to Blondet and the abbe; for they could see Madame Michaud from where they stood, without her seeing them.

“I always come this way when I walk in the park,” said the countess, softly.  “I delight in looking at the pavilion and its two turtle-doves, as much as I delight in a fine view.”

She leaned significantly on Blondet’s arm, as if to make him share sentiments too delicate for words but which all women feel.

“I wish I were a gate-keeper at Les Aigues,” said Blondet, smiling.  “Why! what troubles you?” he added, noticing an expression of sadness on the countess’s face.

“Nothing,” she replied.

Women are always hiding some important thought when they say, hypocritically, “It is nothing.”

“A woman may be the victim of ideas which would seem very flimsy to you,” she added, “but which, to us, are terrible.  As for me, I envy Olympe’s lot.”

“God hears you,” said the abbe, smiling as though to soften the sternness of his remark.

Madame de Montcornet grew seriously uneasy when she noticed an expression of fear and anxiety in Olympe’s face and attitude.  By the way a woman draws out her needle or sets her stitches another woman understands her thoughts.  In fact, though wearing a rose-colored dress, with her hair carefully braided about her head, the bailiff’s wife was thinking of matters that were out of keeping with her pretty dress, the glorious day, and the work her hands were engaged on.  Her beautiful brow, and the glance she turned sometimes on the ground at her feet, sometimes on the foliage around, evidently seeing nothing, betrayed some deep anxiety,—­all the more unconsciously because she supposed herself alone.