nd by degrees
enveloped her in the meshes of a net, which continually hemmed her in
closer and closer. He gained entire possession of her heart and
confidence, and without expressing any wish or making any promises,
managed so to establish his influence over her, that she did nothing
but what he wished.

Long before Monsieur de Gedre had addressed any passionate words to her,
or any avowal which immediately introduces warmth and danger into a
flirtation, Marie-des-Anges had betrayed herself with the candor of a
little girl, who does not think she is doing any wrong, and cannot hide
what she thinks, what she is dreaming about, and the tenderness which
lies hidden at the bottom of her heart, and she no longer felt that
horror of life which had formerly tortured her. She no longer felt
herself alone, as she had done formerly--so alone, so lost, even among
her own people, that everything had become indifferent to her.

It was very pleasant and soothing to love and to think that she was
loved, to have a furtive and secret understanding with another heart,
to imagine that he was thinking of her at the same time that she was
thinking of him, to shelter herself timidly under his protection, to
feel more unhappy each time she left him, and to experience greater
happiness every time they met.

She wrote him long letters, which she did not venture to send him when
they were written, for she was timid and feared that he would make fun of
them, and she sang the whole day through, like a lark that is intoxicated
with the sun, so that Monsieur d'Etchegorry scarcely recognized her any
longer.

Soon they made appointments together in some secluded spot, meeting for a
few minutes in the aisles of the cathedral and behind the ramparts, or on
the promenade of the _Allees-Marines_, which was always dark, on account
of the dense foliage.

And at last, one evening in June, when the sky was so studded with stars
that it might have been taken for a triumphal route of some sovereign,
strewn with precious stones and rare flowers, Monsieur de Gedre went into
the large, neglected garden.

Marie-des-Anges was waiting for him in a somber walk with witch elms on
either side and listening for the least noise, looking at the closed
windows of the house, and nearly fainting, as much from fear as from
happiness. They spoke in a low voice. She was close to him and he must
have heard the beating of her heart, into which he had cast the first
seeds o