The blinds were carefully closed, as well as the double curtains, and they let in so little light that Octave had to accustom himself to the obscurity before he could distinguish Madame de Bergenheim through the muslin, curtains and the glass door.  She was lying upon the divan, with her head turned in his direction and a book in her hand.  He first thought her asleep, but soon noticed her gleaming eyes fastened upon the ceiling.

“She is not asleep, she does not read, then she is thinking of me!” said he to himself, by a logical deduction he believed incontestable.

After a moment’s hesitation, seeing that the young woman remained motionless, Gerfaut tried to turn the handle of the door as softly as possible so as to make his entrance quietly.  The bolt had just noiselessly slipped in the lock when the drawing-room door suddenly opened, a flood of light inundated the floor, and Aline appeared upon the threshold, watering-pot in hand.

The young girl stopped an instant, for she thought her sister-in-law was asleep; but, meeting in the shade Clemence’s sparkling eyes, she entered, saying in a fresh, silvery voice: 

“All my flowers are doing well; I have come to water yours.”

Madame de Bergenheim made no reply, but her eyebrows contracted slightly as she watched the young girl kneel before a superb datura.  This almost imperceptible symptom, and the rather ill-humored look, foretold a storm.  A few drops of water falling upon the floor gave her the needed pretext, and Gerfaut, as much in love as he was, could not help thinking of the fable of the wolf and the lamb, when he heard the lady of his thoughts exclaim, in an impatient tone: 

“Let those flowers alone; they do not need to be watered.  Do you not see that you are wetting the floor?”

Aline turned around and looked at the scolder for a moment; then, placing her watering-pot upon the floor, she darted toward the divan like a kitten that has just received a blow from its mother’s paw and feels authorized to play with her.  Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise at this unexpected attack; but before she could sit up, she was thrown back upon the cushions by the young girl, who seized both her hands and kissed her on each cheek.

“Good gracious! how cross you have been for the last few days!” cried Aline, pressing her sister’s hands.  “Are you going to be like your aunt?  You do nothing but scold now.  What have I done?  Are you vexed with me?  Do you not love me any longer?”

Clemence felt a sort of remorse at this question, asked with such a loving accent; but her jealousy she could not overcome.  To make up for it, she kissed her sister-in-law with a show of affection which seemed to satisfy the latter.

“What are you reading?” asked the young girl, picking up the book which had fallen to the floor in their struggle—­“Notre Dame de Paris.  That must be interesting!  Will you let me read it?  Oh! do! will you?”