benefactions, her care for the sick, her vigils at the bed of suffering
and of death. It was very beautiful and noble; he would not fail to
speak of it at St. Sulpice. Did he not seem to say that he would not
fail to speak of it to God?

Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I sat
down on the grass and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned on
me his dull and lifeless eye:

"The celebrated Vergniaud," said he, "was afflicted with the habit of
sitting on the ground and playing with animals."

"It is a habit that is innocent enough," I replied. "If there were none
worse the world would get along very well, without so much meddling on
the part of others."

My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject. He was
charged with a commission; his uncle the cure had spoken to him of a
poor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread. He lived in such and
such a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; he
hoped that Madame Pierson--

I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply she
would make and hoping she would say something in order to efface the
memory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed and
he retired.

When he had gone our gayety returned. We entered a greenhouse in the
rear of the garden.

Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and her
peasants: everything about her must be well cared for, each flower must
have its drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that it might be gay
and happy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than her
little greenhouse. When we had made the round of the building, she said:

"This is my little world; you have seen all I possess, and my domain
ends here."

"Madame," I said, "as my father's name has secured for me the favor of
admittance here, permit me to return, and I will believe that happiness
has not entirely forgotten me."

She extended her hand and I touched it with respect, not daring to raise
it to my lips.

I returned home, closed my door and retired. There danced before my
eyes a little white house; I saw myself walking through the village
and knocking at the garden gate. "Oh, my poor heart!" I cried. "God
be praised, you are still young, you are still capable of life and of
love!"

One evening I was with Madame Pierson. More than three months had
passed, during which I had seen her almost every day; and what can I
say