schemes on
her brow, and forbid her going to confession, and she now felt new blood
in her feet, she lifted them as though she trod on fire. She had, of
course, arranged to be with her confessor at a quarter-past eight,
telling her mother eight, so as to have about a quarter of an hour near
Albert. She got to church before Mass, and after a short prayer, went
to see if the Abbe Giroud were in his confessional, simply to pass the
time; and she thus placed herself in such a way as to see Albert as he
came into church.

The man must have been atrociously ugly who did not seem handsome
to Mademoiselle de Watteville in the frame of mind produced by her
curiosity. And Albert Savaron, who was really very striking, made all
the more impression on Rosalie because his mien, his walk, his carriage,
everything down to his clothing, had the indescribable stamp which can
only be expressed by the word Mystery.

He came in. The church, till now gloomy, seemed to Rosalie to be
illuminated. The girl was fascinated by his slow and solemn demeanor, as
of a man who bears a world on his shoulders and whose deep gaze, whose
very gestures, combine to express a devastating or absorbing thought.
Rosalie now understood the Vicar-General's words in their fullest
extent. Yes, those eyes of tawny brown, shot with golden lights,
covered ardor which revealed itself in sudden flashes. Rosalie, with a
recklessness which Mariette noted, stood in the lawyer's way, so as
to exchange glances with him; and this glance turned her blood, for it
seethed and boiled as though its warmth were doubled.

As soon as Albert had taken a seat, Mademoiselle de Watteville quickly
found a place whence she could see him perfectly during all the time the
Abbe might leave her. When Mariette said, "Here is Monsieur Giroud,"
it seemed to Rosalie that the interview had lasted no more than a few
minutes. By the time she came out from the confessional, Mass was over.
Albert had left the church.

"The Vicar-General was right," thought she. "_He_ is unhappy. Why should
this eagle--for he has the eyes of an eagle--swoop down on Besancon? Oh,
I must know everything! But how?"

Under the smart of this new desire Rosalie set the stitches of her
worsted-work with exquisite precision, and hid her meditations under
a little innocent air, which shammed simplicity to deceive Madame de
Watteville.

From that Sunday, when Mademoiselle de Watteville had met that look,
or, if you please