d."

Little accustomed to such attention, the poor girl looked at Rodolph
with surprise.

"_Mon Dieu!_ M. Rodolph, how kind you are; I am really ashamed--"

"Because I am kind?"

"No; but you do not speak as you did yesterday; you appear quite another
person."

"Tell me, then, Fleur-de-Marie, which do you like best,--the Rodolph of
yesterday, or the Rodolph of to-day?"

"I like you better now; yet yesterday I seemed to be more your equal."
Then, as if correcting herself, and fearing to have annoyed Rodolph, she
said to him, "When I say your equal, M. Rodolph, I do not mean that I
can ever be that."

"One thing in you astonishes me very much, Fleur-de-Marie."

"And what is that, M. Rodolph?"

"You appear to have forgotten that the Chouette said to you yesterday
that she knew the persons who had brought you up."

"Oh! I have not forgotten it; I thought of it all night, and I cried
bitterly; but I am sure it is not true; she invented this tale to make
me unhappy."

"Yet the Chouette may know more than you think. If it were so, should
you not be delighted to be restored to your parents?"

"Alas, sir! if my parents never loved me, what should I gain by
discovering them? They would only see me and--But if they _did_ ever
love me, what shame I should bring on them! Perhaps I should kill them!"

"If your parents ever loved you, Fleur-de-Marie, they will pity,
pardon, and still love you. If they have abandoned you, then, when they
see the frightful destiny to which they have brought you, _their_ shame
and remorse will avenge you."

"What is the good of vengeance?"

"You are right; let us talk no more on the subject."

At this moment the carriage reached St. Ouen, where the road divides to
St. Denis and the Revolte. In spite of the monotony of the landscape,
Fleur-de-Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, as she called
them, that, forgetting the sad thoughts which the recollection of the
Chouette had awakened in her, her lovely countenance grew radiant with
delight. She leaned out of the window, clasping her hands, and crying:

"M. Rodolph, how happy I am! Grass! Fields! May I get out? It is so
fine! I should so like to run in the meadows."

"Let us run, then, my child. Coachman, stop."

"What! You, too? Will you run, M. Rodolph?"

"I'm having a holiday."

"Oh! What pleasure!"

And Rodolph and Goualeuse, taking each other's hand, ran as fast as they
could over a long piece of latter-grass, just