Gerfaut indulged in these unpleasant reflections while gazing at Madame de Bergenheim.  Seated up on the bench as proudly as a queen upon her throne, with shining eyes, scornful lips, and arms tightly folded under her cashmere shawl, with that haughty gesture familiar to her, the young woman looked as invulnerable under this light wrap as if she had been covered with Ajax’s shield, formed, if we can credit Homer, of seven bulls’ hides and a sheet of brass.

After gazing at this scornful face for a moment, Gerfaut glanced at his coarse blouse, his leggings, and muddy boots.  His usual dainty ways made the details of this costume yet more shocking to him, and he exaggerated this little disaster.  He felt degraded and almost ridiculous.  The thought took away for a moment his presence of mind; he began mechanically to twirl his hat in his hands, exactly as if he had been Pere Rousselet himself.  But instead of being hurtful to him, this awkwardness served him better than the eloquence of Rousseau or the coolness of Richelieu.  Was it not a genuine triumph for Clemence to reduce a man of his recognized talent, who was usually anything but timid, to this state of embarrassment?  What witty response, what passionate speech could equal the flattery of this poet with bent head and this expression of deep sadness upon his face?

Madame de Bergenheim continued her raillery, but in a softer tone.

“This time, instead of staying in a cabin, the god of poetry has descended to a tavern.  Have you not established your general headquarters at La Fauconnerie?”

“How did you know that?”

“By the singular visiting-card that you drew in La Mode.  Do I not know your coat-of-arms?  An expressive one, as my aunt would say.”

At these words, which probably referred to some letters, doubtless read without very much anger, since they were thus recalled, Gerfaut took courage.

“Yes,” said he, “I am staying at La Fauconnerie; but I can not stay there any longer, for I think your servants make the tavern their pleasure-ground.  I must come to some decision.  I have two propositions to submit to you:  the first is, that you will allow me to see you occasionally; there are numerous promenades about here; you go out alone, so it would be very easy.”

“Let us hear the second,” said Clemence, with a shrug of the shoulders.

“If you will not grant my first, I beg of you to persuade your aunt that she is ill and to take her with you to Plombieres or Baden.  The season is not very far advanced; there, at least, I should be able to see you.”

“Let us end this folly,” said the Baroness; “I have listened patiently to you; now, in your turn, listen to me.  You will be sensible, will you not?  You will leave me and go.  You will go to Switzerland, and return to the Montanvert, where you met me for the first time, which I shall always remember, if you, yourself, do not make it painful for me to do so.  You will obey me, Octave, will you not?  Give me this proof of your esteem and friendship.  You know very well that it is impossible for me to grant what you ask; believe me, it is painful to me to be forced to refuse you.  So, say farewell to me; you shall see me again next winter in Paris.  Adieu!”