atre without you!" cried she in a tone of amazement; "enjoy
any pleasure you do not share! O my Roger! you do not deserve a
kiss," she added, throwing her arms round his neck with an artless and
impassioned impulse.

"Caroline, I must go home and dress. The Marais is some way off, and I
still have some business to finish."

"Take care what you are saying, monsieur," said she, interrupting him.
"My mother says that when a man begins to talk about his business, he is
ceasing to love."

"Caroline! Am I not here? Have I not stolen this hour from my
pitiless--"

"Hush!" said she, laying a finger on his mouth. "Don't you see that I am
in jest."

They had now come back to the drawing-room, and Roger's eye fell on an
object brought home that morning by the cabinetmaker. Caroline's old
rosewood embroidery-frame, by which she and her mother had earned their
bread when they lived in the Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, had been
refitted and polished, and a net dress, of elaborate design, was already
stretched upon it.

"Well, then, my dear, I shall do some work this evening. As I stitch, I
shall fancy myself gone back to those early days when you used to
pass by me without a word, but not without a glance; the days when
the remembrance of your look kept me awake all night. Oh my dear old
frame--the best piece of furniture in my room, though you did not give
it me!--You cannot think," said she, seating herself on Roger's knees;
for he, overcome by irresistible feelings, had dropped into a chair.
"Listen.--All I can earn by my work I mean to give to the poor. You have
made me rich. How I love that pretty home at Bellefeuille, less because
of what it is than because you gave it me! But tell me, Roger, I should
like to call myself Caroline de Bellefeuille--can I? You must know: is
it legal or permissible?"

As she saw a little affirmative grimace--for Roger hated the name of
Crochard--Caroline jumped for glee, and clapped her hands.

"I feel," said she, "as if I should more especially belong to you.
Usually a woman gives up her own name and takes her husband's--" An idea
forced itself upon her and made her blush. She took Roger's hand and led
him to the open piano.--"Listen," said she, "I can play my sonata now
like an angel!" and her fingers were already running over the ivory
keys, when she felt herself seized round the waist.

"Caroline, I ought to be far from hence!"

"You insist on going? Well, go," said she, with a pre