I turned to Lampron, who had stopped a few steps in front of me, a little to the right.  He had got out his sketch-book, and was drawing hurriedly.  Presently he forgot all prudence, and came forth from the shelter of a beech to get nearer to his model.  In vain I made sign upon sign, and tried to remind him that we were not thereto paint or sketch.  It was useless; the artist within him had broken loose.  Sitting down at the required distance on a gnarled root, right in the open, he went on with his work with no thought but for his art.

The inevitable happened.  Growing impatient over some difficulty in his sketch, Lampron shuffled his feet; a twig broke, some leaves rustled-Jeanne turned round and saw me looking at her, Lampron sketching her.

What are the feelings of a young girl who in the middle of a forest suddenly discovers that two pairs of eyes are busy with her?  A little fright at first; then—­when the idea of robbers is dismissed, and a second glance has shown her that it is her beauty, not her life, they want—­a touch of satisfied vanity at the compliment, not unmixed with confusion.

This is exactly what we thought we saw.  At first she slightly drew back, with brows knitted, on the verge of an exclamation; then her brows unbent, and the pleasure of finding herself admired, confusion at being taken unawares, the desire of appearing at ease, all appeared at once on her rosy cheeks and in her faintly troubled smile.

I bowed.  Sylvestre pulled off his cap.

M. Charnot never stirred.

“Another squirrel?” he said.

“Two this time, I think, father,” she answered, in a low voice.

He went on reading.

“‘My guest,’ made answer the fair Nausicaa, ’for I call thee so since thou seemest not base nor foolish, it is Zeus himself that giveth weal to men—­’”

Jeanne was no longer listening.  She was thinking.  Of what?  Of several things, perhaps, but certainly of how to beat a retreat.  I guessed it by the movement of her sunshade, which was nervously tracing figures in the turf.  I signalled to Lampron.  We retired backward.  Yet it was in vain; the charm was broken, the peace had been disturbed.

She gave two coughs—­musical little coughs, produced at will.

M. Charnot broke off his reading.

“You are cold, Jeanne?”

“Why, no, father.”

“Yes, yes, you’re cold.  Why did you not say so before?  Lord, Lord, these children!  Always the same—­think of nothing!”

He rose without delay, put his book in his pocket, buttoned up his coat, and, leaning on his stick, glanced up a moment at the tree-tops.  Then, side by side, they disappeared down the path, Jeanne stepping briskly, upright and supple, between the young branches which soon concealed her.

Still Lampron continued to watch the turning in the path down which she had vanished.

“What are you thinking about?” said I.