But not to sleep.His strange position, the accident to his horse, an unusual irritation over the incident of the frightened servants,--trivial as it might have been to any other man,--and, above all, an increasing childish curiosity, kept him awake and restless.Presently he could see also that it was growing lighter beyond the edge of the wood, and that the rays of a young crescent moon, while it plunged the forest into darkness and impassable shadow, evidently was illuminating the hollow below.He threw aside his blanket, and made his way to the hedge again.He was right; he could see the quaint, formal lines of the old garden more distinctly,--the broad terrace, the queer, dark bulk of the house, with lights now gleaming from a few of its open windows.
Before one of these windows opening on the terrace was a small, white, draped table with fruits, cups, and glasses, and two or three chairs.As he gazed curiously at these new signs of life and occupation, he became aware of a regular and monotonous tap upon the stone flags of the terrace.Suddenly he saw three figures slowly turn the corner of the terrace at the further end of the building, and walk towards the table.The central figure was that of an elderly woman, yet tall and stately of carriage, walking with a stick, whose regular tap he had heard, supported on the one side by an elderly Cure in black soutaine, and on the other by a tall and slender girl in white.
They walked leisurely to the other end of the terrace, as if performing a regular exercise, and returned, stopping before the open French window; where, after remaining in conversation a few moments, the elderly lady and her ecclesiastical companion entered.
The young girl sauntered slowly to the steps of the terrace, and leaning against a huge vase as she looked over the garden, seemed lost in contemplation.Her face was turned towards the wood, but in quite another direction from where he stood.
There was something so gentle, refined, and graceful in her figure, yet dominated by a girlish youthfulness of movement and gesture, that Alkali **** was singularly interested.He had probably never seen an ingenue before; he had certainly never come in contact with a girl of that caste and seclusion in his brief Parisian experience.
He was sorely tempted to leave his hedge and try to obtain a nearer view of her.There was a fringe of lilac bushes running from the garden up the slope; if he could gain their shadows, he could descend into the garden.What he should do after his arrival he had not thought; but he had one idea--he knew not why--that if he ventured to speak to her he would not be met with the abrupt rustic terror he had experienced at the hands of the servants.SHE was not of that kind! He crept through the hedge, reached the lilacs, and began the descent softly and securely in the shadow.But at the same moment she arose, called in a youthful voice towards the open window, and began to descend the steps.A half-expostulating reply came from the window, but the young girl answered it with the laughing, capricious confidence of a spoiled child, and continued her way into the garden.Here she paused a moment and hung over a rose-tree, from which she gathered a flower, afterwards thrust into her belt.**** paused, too, half-crouching, half-leaning over a lichen-stained, cracked stone pedestal from which the statue had long been overthrown and forgotten.
To his surprise, however, the young girl, following the path to the lilacs, began leisurely to ascend the hill, swaying from side to side with a youthful movement, and swinging the long stalk of a lily at her side.In another moment he would be discovered! **** was frightened; his confidence of the moment before had all gone;he would fly,--and yet, an exquisite and fearful joy kept him motionless.She was approaching him, full and clear in the moonlight.He could see the grace of her delicate figure in the ****** white frock drawn at the waist with broad satin ribbon, and its love-knots of pale blue ribbons on her shoulders; he could see the coils of her brown hair, the pale, olive tint of her oval cheek, the delicate, swelling nostril of her straight, clear-cut nose; he could even smell the lily she carried in her little hand.
Then, suddenly, she lifted her long lashes, and her large gray eyes met his.
Alas! the same look of vacant horror came into her eyes, and fixed and dilated their clear pupils.But she uttered no outcry,--there was something in her blood that checked it; something that even gave a dignity to her recoiling figure, and made **** flush with admiration.She put her hand to her side, as if the shock of the exertion of her ascent had set her heart to beating, but she did not faint.Then her fixed look gave way to one of infinite sadness, pity, and pathetic appeal.Her lips were parted; they seemed to be moving, apparently in prayer.At last her voice came, wonderingly, timidly, tenderly: "Mon Dieu! c'est donc vous? Ici?
C'est vous que Marie a crue voir! Que venez-vous faire ici, Armand de Fontonelles? Repondez!"Alas, not a word was comprehensible to ****; nor could he think of a word to say in reply.He made an uncouth, half-irritated, half-despairing gesture towards the wood he had quitted, as if to indicate his helpless horse, but he knew it was meaningless to the frightened yet exalted girl before him.Her little hand crept to her breast and clutched a rosary within the folds of her dress, as her soft voice again arose, low but appealingly:
"Vous souffrez! Ah, mon Dieu! Peuton vous secourir? Moi-meme--mes prieres pourraient elles interceder pour vous? Je supplierai le ciel de prendre en pitie l'ame de mon ancetre.Monsieur le Cure est la,--je lui parlerai.Lui et ma mere vous viendront en aide."She clasped her hands appealingly before him.
