“The celebrated Vergniaud,” said he, “was afflicted with the habit of sitting on the ground and playing with animals.”

“It is a habit that is innocent enough,” I replied.  “If there were none worse the world would get along very well, without so much meddling on the part of others.”

My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject.  He was charged with a commission; his uncle the cure had spoken to him of a poor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread.  He lived in such and such a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; he hoped that Madame Pierson—­

I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply she would make and hoping she would say something in order to efface the memory of the priest’s voice with her gentle tones.  She merely bowed and he retired.

When he had gone our gayety returned.  We entered a greenhouse in the rear of the garden.

Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and her peasants:  everything about her must be well cared for, each flower must have its drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that it might be gay and happy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than her little greenhouse.  When we had made the round of the building, she said: 

“This is my little world; you have seen all I possess, and my domain ends here.”

“Madame,” I said, “as my father’s name has secured for me the favor of admittance here, permit me to return, and I will believe that happiness has not entirely forgotten me.”

She extended her hand and I touched it with respect, not daring to raise it to my lips.

I returned home, closed my door and retired.  There danced before my eyes a little white house; I saw myself walking through the village and knocking at the garden gate.  “Oh, my poor heart!” I cried.  “God be praised, you are still young, you are still capable of life and of love!”

One evening I was with Madame Pierson.  More than three months had passed, during which I had seen her almost every day; and what can I say of that time except that I saw her?  “To be with those we love,” said Bruyere, “suffices; to dream, to talk to them, not to talk to them, to think of them, to think of the most indifferent things, but to be near them, that is all.”

I loved.  During the three months we had taken many long walks; I was initiated into the mysteries of her modest charities; we passed through dark streets, she on her pony, I on foot, a small stick in my hand; thus half conversing, half dreaming, we went from cottage to cottage.  There was a little bench near the edge of the wood where I was accustomed to rest after dinner; we met here regularly, as though by chance.  In the morning, music, reading; in the evening, cards with the aunt as in the days of my father; and she always there, smiling, her presence filling my heart.  By what road, O Providence! have you led me?  What irrevocable destiny am I to accomplish?  What! a life so free, an intimacy so charming, so much repose, such buoyant hope!  O God!  Of what do men complain?  What is there sweeter than love?