He looked in heavy amazement from one to the other.  Rose bent, and was by some supple process on one knee, taking the measure of the wounded foot.  When she first approached it he winced:  but the next moment he smiled.  He had never been touched like this—­it was contact and no contact—­she treated his foot as the zephyr the violets—­she handled it as if it had been some sacred thing.  By the help of his eye he could just know she was touching him.  Presently she informed him he was measured for a list shoe:  and she would run home for the materials.  During her absence came a timid tap to the door; and Edouard Riviere entered.  He was delighted to see Josephine, and made sure Rose was not far off.  It was Dard who let out that she was gone to Beaurepaire for some cloth to make him a shoe.  This information set Edouard fidgeting on his chair.  He saw such a chance as was not likely to occur again.  He rose with feigned nonchalance, and saying, “I leave you in good hands; angel visitors are best enjoyed alone,” slowly retired, with a deep obeisance.  Once outside the door, dignity vanished in alacrity; he flew off into the park, and ran as hard as he could towards the chateau.  He was within fifty yards of the little gate, when sure enough Rose emerged.  They met; his heart beat violently.  “Mademoiselle,” he faltered.

“Ah! it is Monsieur Riviere, I declare,” said Rose, coolly; all over blushes though.

“Yes, mademoiselle, and I am so out of breath.  Mademoiselle Josephine awaits you at Dard’s house.”

“She sent you for me?” inquired Rose, demurely.

“Not positively.  But I could see I should please her by coming for you; there is, I believe, a bull or so about.”

“A bull or two! don’t talk in that reckless way about such things.  She has done well to send you; let us make haste.”

“But I am a little out of breath.”

“Oh, never mind that!  I abhor bulls.”

“But, mademoiselle, we are not come to them yet, and the faster we go now the sooner we shall.”

“Yes; but I always like to get a disagreeable thing over as soon as possible,” said Rose, slyly.

“Ah,” replied Edouard, mournfully, “in that case let us make haste.”

After a little spurt, mademoiselle relaxed the pace of her own accord, and even went slower than before.  There was an awkward silence.  Edouard eyed the park boundary, and thought, “Now what I have to say I must say before we get to you;” and being thus impressed with the necessity of immediate action, he turned to lead.

Rose eyed him and the ground, alternately, from under her long lashes.

At last he began to color and flutter.  She saw something was coming, and all the woman donned defensive armor.

“Mademoiselle.”

“Monsieur.”

“Is it quite decided that your family refuse my acquaintance, my services, which I still—­forgive me—­press on you?  Ah!  Mademoiselle Rose, am I never to have the happiness of—­of—­even speaking to you?”