“He would not think of doing such a thing,” she replied.

“I quite believe it,” I answered; “he would take very good care of that.  Just look at the chap. . . .  And I—­I did not ruffle a hair of your head.  He is very good at picking violets; but, take my word for it, in a case of danger, don’t make him your first choice.”

M. de la Marche paid me great compliments on this exploit.  I had hoped that he would be jealous; he did not even appear to dream of it, but rather made merry over the pitiable state of his toilet.  The day was excessively hot, and we were quite dry before the end of the walk.  Edmee, however, remained sad and pensive.  It seemed to me that she was making an effort to show me as much friendship as at luncheon.  This affected me considerably; for I was not only enamoured of her—­I loved her.  I could not make the distinction then, but both feelings were in me—­passion and tenderness.

The chevalier and the abbe returned in time for dinner.  They conversed in a low voice with M. de la Marche about the settlement of my affairs, and, from the few words which I could not help overhearing, I gathered that they had just secured my future on the bright lines they had laid before me in the morning.  I was too shy and proud to express my simple thanks.  This generosity perplexed me; I could not understand it, and I almost suspected that it was a trap they were preparing to separate me from my cousin.  I did not realize the advantage of a fortune.  Mine were not the wants of a civilized being; and the prejudices of rank were with me a point of honour, and by no means a social vanity.  Seeing that they did not speak to me openly, I played the somewhat ungracious part of feigning complete ignorance.

Edmee grew more and more melancholy.  I noticed that her eyes rested now on M. de la Marche, now on her father, with a vague uneasiness.  Whenever I spoke to her, or even raised my voice in addressing others, she would start and then knit her brows slightly, as if my voice had caused her physical pain.  She retired immediately after dinner.  Her father followed her with evident anxiety.

“Have you not noticed,” said the abbe, turning to M. de la Marche, as soon as they had left the room, “that Mademoiselle de Mauprat has very much changed of late?”

“She has grown thinner,” answered the lieutenant-general; “but in my opinion she is only the more beautiful for that.”

“Yes; but I fear she may be more seriously ill than she owns,” replied the abbe.  “Her temperament seems no less changed than her face; she has grown quite sad.”

“Sad?  Why, I don’t think I ever saw her so gay as she was this morning; don’t you agree with me, Monsieur Bernard?  It was only after our walk that she complained of a slight headache.”

“I assure you that she is really sad,” rejoined the abbe.  “Nowadays, when she is gay, her gaiety is excessive; at such a time there seems to be something strange and forced about her which is quite foreign to her usual manner.  Then the next minute she relapses into a state of melancholy, which I never noticed before the famous night in the forest.  You may be certain that night was a terrible experience.”