“You are wrong; I can certify to you that your refusal plunged me for as much as forty-eight hours into the depths of despair—­I mean one of those genuine despairs that neither eat, drink, nor sleep, and that speak openly of suicide!”

“And at the end of forty-eight hours were you consoled?”

“Eh! bon Dieu, it surely was time to come to reason.  I had hesitated a long time before asking your hand, because I thought, ’If she refuses me, I cannot see her any more.’  But I still do see you, so all is well!”

“And how soon do you mean to marry?”

“I?  Never!  I shall die a bachelor.  An aspirant to the hand of Mlle. Moriaz, being unable to win her, could not care for another woman.  Nothing remains but to strike the attitude of the inconsolable lover.”

“And when this ceases to hinder one from eating, drinking, or sleeping—­what then?”

“One becomes interesting without being inconvenienced by the consequences,” he gaily interposed.  Then, letting his eyes wander idly around for a moment, he added:  “It seems to me that you have in some way changed the order of this terrace; put to the right what was at the left, thinned out the shrubbery, cut the trees; I feel completely lost here.”

“You mistake greatly; nothing is changed here; it is you who have become forgetful.  How! you now longer recognise this terrace, scene of so many exploits?  I was a thorough tyrant; I did with you what I pleased.  You revolted sometimes, but in his heart the slave adored his chains.  Open your eyes.  See! here is the sycamore you climbed one day to escape me when I wanted you to make believe that you were a girl, as you said, and you had little fancy for such a silly role.  There is the alley where we played ball, and yonder the hedge and the grove where we played hide-and-seek.”

“Say rather, cligne-musette; it is more poetical,” he rejoined.  “When I was down in Transylvania I made a chanson about it all, and set it myself to music.”

“Sing me your chanson.”

“You are mocking at me; my voice is false, as you well know; but I will consent to recite it to you.  The rhymes are not rich—­I am no son of Parnassus.”

With these words, lowering his voice, not daring to look her in the face, he recited the couplets.

“Your chanson is very pretty,” said she; “but it does not tell the truth, for here we are sitting together on this bench; we have not lost each other at all.”

She was so innocent that she had no idea of the torture she was inflicting, and he saw this so plainly that he could not so much as have the satisfaction of finding fault with her; yet he asked himself whether in the best woman’s heart there was not a foundation of cruelty, of unconscious ferocity.  He felt the tears start to his eyes; he scarcely could restrain them; he abruptly bowed his head, and began to examine a beautiful horned beetle, which was just crossing the gravel-path at a quick pace, apparently having some very important affairs to regulate.  When M. Langis raised his head his eyes were dry, his face serene, his lips smiling.