y
sleepless night. I was still in bed when I heard the hoofs of M. de la
Marche's horse on the stones of the courtyard. Every day he used to come
at this hour; every day he used to see Edmee at the same time as myself;
and now, on this very day, this day when she had tried to persuade me to
reckon on her hand, he was going to see her before me, and to give his
soulless kiss to this hand that had been promised to myself. The
thought of it stirred up all my doubts again. How could Edmee endure his
attentions if she really meant to marry another man? Perhaps she dared
not send him away; perhaps it was my duty to do so. I was ignorant of
the ways of the world into which I was entering. Instinct counselled me
to yield to my hasty impulses; and instinct spoke loudly.

I hastily dressed myself. I entered the drawing-room pale and agitated.
Edmee was pale too. It was a cold, rainy morning. A fire was burning in
the great fire-place. Lying back in an easy chair, she was warming
her little feet and dozing. It was the same listless, almost lifeless,
attitude of the days of her illness. M. de la Marche was reading the
paper at the other end of the room. On seeing that Edmee was more
affected than myself by the emotions of the previous night, I felt my
anger cool, and, approaching her noiselessly, I sat down and gazed on
her tenderly.

"Is that you, Bernard?" she asked without moving a limb, and with eyes
still closed.

Her elbows were resting on the arms of her chair and her hands were
gracefully crossed under her chin. At that period it was the fashion
for women to have their arms half bare at all times. On one of Edmee's I
noticed a little strip of court-plaster that made my heart beat. It was
the slight scratch I had caused against the bars of the chapel window. I
gently lifted the lace which fell over her elbow, and, emboldened by her
drowsiness, pressed my lips to the darling wound. M. de la Marche could
see me, and, in fact, did see me, as I intended he should. I was
burning to have a quarrel with him. Edmee started and turned red; but
immediately assuming an air of indolent playfulness, she said:

"Really, Bernard, you are as gallant this morning as a court abbe. Do
you happen to have been composing a madrigal last night?"

I was peculiarly mortified at this jesting. However, paying her back in
her own coin, I answered:

"Yes; I composed one yesterday evening at the chapel window; and if it
is a poor thing, cousin, it