his boots to see his feet, tearing his gloves, putting on his hat; she would even let him pass his hands through her hair, and take her in his arms; she accepted, but without pleasure, his ardent kisses.  She would look at him silently, without emotion, when his tears flowed; but she always understood his “Partant pour la Syrie,” when he whistled it, though he never succeeded in teaching her to say her own name Stephanie.

Philippe was sustained in his agonizing enterprise by hope, which never abandoned him.  When, on fine autumn mornings, he found the countess sitting peacefully on a bench, beneath a poplar now yellowing, the poor lover would sit at her feet, looking into her eyes as long as she would let him, hoping ever that the light that was in them would become intelligent.  Sometimes the thought deluded him that he saw those hard immovable rays softening, vibrating, living, and he cried out,—­

“Stephanie!  Stephanie! thou hearest me, thou seest me!”

But she listened to that cry as to a noise, the soughing of the wind in the tree-tops, or the lowing of the cow on the back of which she climbed.  Then the colonel would wring his hands in despair,—­despair that was new each day.

One evening, under a calm sky, amid the silence and peace of that rural haven, the doctor saw, from a distance, that the colonel was loading his pistols.  The old man felt then that the young man had ceased to hope; he felt the blood rushing to his heart, and if he conquered the vertigo that threatened him, it was because he would rather see his niece living and mad than dead.  He hastened up.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“That is for me,” replied the colonel, pointing to a pistol already loaded, which was lying on the bench; “and this is for her,” he added, as he forced the wad into the weapon he held.

The countess was lying on the ground beside him, playing with the balls.

“Then you do not know,” said the doctor, coldly, concealing his terror, “that in her sleep last night she called you:  Philippe!”

“She called me!” cried the baron, dropping his pistol, which Stephanie picked up.  He took it from her hastily, caught up the one that was on the bench, and rushed away.

“Poor darling!” said the doctor, happy in the success of his lie.  He pressed the poor creature to his breast, and continued speaking to himself:  “He would have killed thee, selfish man! because he suffers.  He does not love thee for thyself, my child!  But we forgive, do we not?  He is mad, out of his senses, but thou art only senseless.  No, God alone should call thee to Him.  We think thee unhappy, we pity thee because thou canst not share our sorrows, fools that we are!—­But,” he said, sitting down and taking her on his knee, “nothing troubles thee; thy life is like that of a bird, of a fawn—­”

As he spoke she darted upon a young blackbird which was hopping near them, caught it with a little note of satisfaction, strangled it, looked at it, dead in her hand, and flung it down at the foot of a tree without a thought.