It was summer time.  Often in the evening she accepted his arm, and, while the marchioness remained at the window, seated in her arm-chair, they walked around the lawn, treading lightly upon the paths spread with gravel sifted so fine that the trailing of her light dress effaced the traces of their footsteps.  She chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved brother, while he was obliged to do violence to his feelings, to refrain from imprinting a kiss upon the little blonde head, from which the light breeze lifted the curls and scattered them like fleecy clouds.  At such moments, he seemed to tread an enchanted path strewn with flowers, at the end of which appeared happiness.

When he attempted to speak of his hopes to the marchioness, she would say:  “You know what we agreed upon.  Not a word.  Already does the voice of conscience reproach me for lending my countenance to such an abomination.  To think that I may one day have a granddaughter calling herself Madame Daburon!  You must petition the king, my friend, to change your name.”

If instead of intoxicating himself with dreams of happiness, this acute observer had studied the character of his idol, the effect might have been to put him upon his guard.  In the meanwhile, he noticed singular alterations in her humour.  On certain days, she was gay and careless as a child.  Then, for a week, she would remain melancholy and dejected.  Seeing her in this state the day following a ball, to which her grandmother had made a point of taking her, he dared to ask her the reason of her sadness.

“Oh! that,” answered she, heaving a deep sigh, “is my secret,—­a secret of which even my grandmother knows nothing.”

M. Daburon looked at her.  He thought he saw a tear between her long eyelashes.

“One day,” continued she, “I may confide in you:  it will perhaps be necessary.”

The magistrate was blind and deaf.  “I also,” answered he, “have a secret, which I wish to confide to you in return.”

When he retired towards midnight, he said to himself, “To-morrow I will confess everything to her.”  Then passed a little more than fifty days, during which he kept repeating to himself,—­“To-morrow!”

It happened at last one evening in the month of August; the heat all day had been overpowering; towards dusk a breeze had risen, the leaves rustled; there were signs of a storm in the atmosphere.

They were seated together at the bottom of the garden, under the arbour, adorned with exotic plants, and, through the branches, they perceived the fluttering gown of the marchioness, who was taking a turn after her dinner.  They had remained a long time without speaking, enjoying the perfume of the flowers, the calm beauty of the evening.

M. Daburon ventured to take the young girl’s hand.  It was the first time, and the touch of her fine skin thrilled through every fibre of his frame, and drove the blood surging to his brain.