They wandered there for a long time under the chestnut-trees, loaded with their fruit in its green shells.  The sun, filtering through the foliage, dotted the walks with patches of light, and Maurice continued to repeat to Maria that he loved her; that he had never loved any one but her! that he had loved her from the very first time that he saw her at Pere Gerard’s, and that neither time nor absence had been able to drive away the remembrance of her.  And at this moment he imagined that it was true.  He did not think that he was telling a lie.  As to poor Maria, do not be too severe upon her! think of her youth, her poverty and imprisonment—­she was overwhelmed with happiness.  She could think of nothing to say, and, giving herself up into the young man’s arms, she had hardly the strength to turn upon him, from time to time, her eyes tortured with love.

Is it necessary to tell how she succumbed? how they went to a restaurant and dined?  Emotion, the heavy heat of the afternoon, champagne, that golden wine that she tasted for the first time, stunned the imprudent child.  Her charming head slips down upon the sofa-pillow, she is nearly fainting.

“You are too warm,” said Maurice.  “This bright light makes you ill.”

He draws the curtains; they are in the darkness, and he takes the young girl in his arms, covering her hands, eyes, and lips with kisses.

Doubtless he swears to her that she shall be his wife.  He asks only a little time, a few weeks, in which to prepare his mother, the ambitious Madame Roger, for his unexpected marriage.  Maria never doubts him, but overcome by her fault, she feels an intense shame, and buries her face on her lover’s shoulder.  She thinks then, the guilty girl, of her past; of her innocence and poverty, of her humble but honest home; her dead father, her mother and sister—–­her two mothers, properly speaking—–­who yet call her “little one” and always consider her as a child, an infant in all its purity.  She feels impressed with her sin, and wishes that she might die there at once.

Oh!  I beg of you, be charitable to the poor, weak Maria, for she is young and she must suffer!

Maurice was not a rascal, after all; he was in earnest when he promised to marry her without delay.  He even meant to admit all to his mother the next day; but when he saw her she never had appeared so imposing to him, with her gray hair under her widow’s cap.  He shivered as he thought of the tearful scenes, the reproaches and anger, and in his indolence he said to himself:  “Upon my honor, I will do it later!” He loves Maria after his fashion.  He is faithful to her, and when she steals away an hour from her work to come to see him, he is uneasy at the least delay.  She is truly adorable, only Maurice does not like the unhappy look that she wears when she asks him, in a trembling voice:  “Have you spoken to your mother?” He embraces her, reassures her.  “Be easy.  Leave me time