on her arm.  On Sundays he went to church to look for her, dressed in her best clothes.  There, for the first time, he became aware that Pierrette was Mademoiselle Lorrain.  Pierrette saw him and made him a hasty sign to keep out of sight.  To him, there was a world of things in that little gesture, as there had been, a fortnight earlier, in the sign by which she told him from her window to run away.  Ah! what a fortune he must make in the coming ten years in order to marry his little friend, to whom, he was told, the Rogrons were to leave their house, a hundred acres of land, and twelve thousand francs a year, not counting their savings!

The persevering Breton was determined to be thoroughly educated for his trade, and he set about acquiring all the knowledge that he lacked.  As long as only the principles of his work were concerned he could learn those in Provins as well as in Paris, and thus remain near Pierrette, to whom he now became anxious to explain his projects and the sort of protection she could rely on from him.  He was determined to know the reason of her pallor, and of the debility which was beginning to appear in the organ which is always the last to show the signs of failing life, namely the eyes; he would know, too, the cause of the sufferings which gave her that look as though death were near and she might drop at any moment beneath its scythe.  The two signs, the two gestures—­not denying their friendship but imploring caution —­alarmed the young Breton.  Evidently Pierrette wished him to wait and not attempt to see her; otherwise there was danger, there was peril for her.  As she left the church she was able to give him one look, and Brigaut saw that her eyes were full of tears.  But he could have sooner squared the circle than have guessed what had happened in the Rogrons’ house during the fortnight which had elapsed since his arrival.

It was not without keen apprehension that Pierrette came downstairs on the morning after Brigaut had invaded her morning dreams like another dream.  She was certain that her cousin Sylvie must have heard the song, or she would not have risen and opened her window; but Pierrette was ignorant of the powerful reasons that made the old maid so alert.  For the last eight days, strange events and bitter feelings agitated the minds of the chief personages who frequented the Rogron salon.  These hidden matters, carefully concealed by all concerned, were destined to fall in their results like an avalanche on Pierrette.  Such mysterious things, which we ought perhaps to call the putrescence of the human heart, lie at the base of the greatest revolutions, political, social or domestic; but in telling of them it is desirable to explain that their subtle significance cannot be given in a matter-of-fact narrative.  These secret schemes and calculations do not show themselves as brutally and undisguisedly while taking place as they must when the history of them is related.  To set down in writing the circumlocutions, oratorical precautions, protracted conversations, and honeyed words glossed over the venom of intentions, would make as long a book as that magnificent poem called “Clarissa Harlowe.”