reathing
that pure and fragrant air.

The Marquise had taken Saval's arm, and Yvette, Servigny's. The four
were alone by themselves. The two women seemed entirely different
persons from what they were at Paris, especially Yvette. She talked
but little, and seemed languid and grave.

Saval, hardly recognizing her in this frame of mind, asked her:
"What is the matter, Mademoiselle? I find you changed since last
week. You have become quite a serious person."

"It is the country that does that for me," she replied. "I am not
the same, I feel queer; besides I am never two days alike. To-day I
have the air of a mad woman, and to-morrow shall be as grave as an
elegy. I change with the weather, I don't know why. You see, I am
capable of anything, according to the moment. There are days when I
would like to kill people,--not animals, I would never kill
animals,--but people, yes, and other days when I weep at a mere
thing. A lot of different ideas pass through my head. It depends,
too, a good deal on how I get up. Every morning, on waking, I can
tell just what I shall be in the evening. Perhaps it is our dreams
that settle it for us, and it depends on the book I have just read."

She was clad in a white flannel suit which delicately enveloped her
in the floating softness of the material. Her bodice, with full
folds, suggested, without displaying and without restraining, her
free chest, which was firm and already ripe. And her superb neck
emerged from a froth of soft lace, bending with gentle movements,
fairer than her gown, a pilaster of flesh, bearing the heavy mass of
her golden hair.

Servigny looked at her for a long time: "You are adorable this
evening, Mam'zelle," said he, "I wish I could always see you like
this."

"Don't make a declaration, Muscade. I should take it seriously, and
that might cost you dear."

The Marquise seemed happy, very happy. All in black, richly dressed
in a plain gown which showed her strong, full lines, a bit of red at
the bodice, a cincture of red carnations falling from her waist like
a chain, and fastened at the hips, and a red rose in her dark hair,
she carried in all her person something fervid,--in that simple
costume, in those flowers which seemed to bleed, in her look, in her
slow speech, in her peculiar gestures.

Saval, too, appeared serious and absorbed. From time to time he
stroked his pointed beard, trimmed in the fashion of Henri III., and
seemed to be meditating on the mo