certify to you that your refusal plunged me for
as much as forty-eight hours into the depths of despair--I mean one
of those genuine despairs that neither eat, drink, nor sleep, and that
speak openly of suicide!"

"And at the end of forty-eight hours were you consoled?"

"_Eh! bon Dieu_, it surely was time to come to reason. I had hesitated
a long time before asking your hand, because I thought, 'If she refuses
me, I cannot see her any more.' But I still do see you, so all is well!"

"And how soon do you mean to marry?"

"I? Never! I shall die a bachelor. An aspirant to the hand of Mlle.
Moriaz, being unable to win her, could not care for another woman.
Nothing remains but to strike the attitude of the inconsolable lover."

"And when this ceases to hinder one from eating, drinking, or
sleeping--what then?"

"One becomes interesting without being inconvenienced by the
consequences," he gaily interposed. Then, letting his eyes wander idly
around for a moment, he added: "It seems to me that you have in some
way changed the order of this terrace; put to the right what was at the
left, thinned out the shrubbery, cut the trees; I feel completely lost
here."

"You mistake greatly; nothing is changed here; it is you who have become
forgetful. How! you now longer recognise this terrace, scene of so many
exploits? I was a thorough tyrant; I did with you what I pleased. You
revolted sometimes, but in his heart the slave adored his chains. Open
your eyes. See! here is the sycamore you climbed one day to escape me
when I wanted you to make believe that you were a girl, as you said, and
you had little fancy for such a silly role. There is the alley where
we played ball, and yonder the hedge and the grove where we played
hide-and-seek."

"Say rather, _cligne-musette_; it is more poetical," he rejoined. "When
I was down in Transylvania I made a _chanson_ about it all, and set it
myself to music."

"Sing me your _chanson_."

"You are mocking at me; my voice is false, as you well know; but I will
consent to recite it to you. The rhymes are not rich--I am no son of
Parnassus."

With these words, lowering his voice, not daring to look her in the
face, he recited the couplets.

"Your _chanson_ is very pretty," said she; "but it does not tell the
truth, for here we are sitting together on this bench; we have not lost
each other at all."

She was so innocent that she had no idea of the torture she was
inflicting, and he saw