her bright dress and her beauty. The
Stranger, who appeared to be in doubt, had not perhaps made up his mind
to be the girl's escort for the day till this revelation of the delight
she felt on seeing him. He at once hired a vehicle with a fairly good
horse, to drive to Saint-Leu-Taverny, and he offered Madame Crochard
and her daughter seats by his side. The mother accepted without ado; but
presently, when they were already on the way to Saint-Denis, she was by
way of having scruples, and made a few civil speeches as to the possible
inconvenience two women might cause their companion.

"Perhaps, monsieur, you wished to drive alone to Saint-Leu-Taverny,"
said she, with affected simplicity.

Before long she complained of the heat, and especially of her cough,
which, she said, had hindered her from closing her eyes all night; and
by the time the carriage had reached Saint-Denis, Madame Crochard seemed
to be fast asleep. Her snores, indeed, seemed, to the Gentleman in
Black, rather doubtfully genuine, and he frowned as he looked at the old
woman with a very suspicious eye.

"Oh, she is fast asleep," said Caroline quilelessly; "she never ceased
coughing all night. She must be very tired."

Her companion made no reply, but he looked at the girl with a smile that
seemed to say:

"Poor child, you little know your mother!"

However, in spite of his distrust, as the chaise made its way down the
long avenue of poplars leading to Eaubonne, the Stranger thought that
Madame Crochard was really asleep; perhaps he did not care to inquire
how far her slumbers were genuine or feigned. Whether it were that the
brilliant sky, the pure country air, and the heady fragrance of the
first green shoots of the poplars, the catkins of willow, and the
flowers of the blackthorn had inclined his heart to open like all the
nature around him; or that any long restraint was too oppressive while
Caroline's sparkling eyes responded to his own, the Gentleman in Black
entered on a conversation with his young companion, as aimless as the
swaying of the branches in the wind, as devious as the flitting of the
butterflies in the azure air, as illogical as the melodious murmur of
the fields, and, like it, full of mysterious love. At that season is not
the rural country as tremulous as a bride that has donned her marriage
robe; does it not invite the coldest soul to be happy? What heart could
remain unthawed, and what lips could keep its secret, on leaving