"Nothing; so long as my poor mother lived, she never ceased to seek information and make inquiries; but she could never discover a trace of the man who had sworn to love her forever! When she died, I was twelve years old; I could do nothing but weep for my dear mother, and love her who consented to take charge of the unfortunate orphan."

Agathe threw herself into Honorine's arms; the latter hastily wiped away the tears that were gathering in her eyes and said:

"Now, my young fiances, for from this day I regard you as such, let us talk of serious matters. Let us for a moment forget love, which is a very pleasant thing, but insufficient to keep house upon. I am talking now like an aged guardian, am I not? But the old people are almost always right, for they have experience on their side--experience, that unexcelled source of knowledge for which one pays so dear that it ought to be of some use. My young friend Agathe has nothing--no dowry! Alas! I can give her none! And you, Monsieur Edmond--what is your position?--Remember that we have been entirely frank with you."

"Oh! I do not propose to lie to you, madame, or to make myself out any better than I am. I received sixty thousand francs from an uncle; I invested the money and for some time I was content to live on the income. But soon, acquaintances--circ.u.mstances--follies----"

"Enough! we can guess the rest. You have spent the whole?"

"No, madame; I still have about twenty thousand francs. But I have hopes, I will obtain employment, a lucrative place--it has been promised me."

"Well, Monsieur Edmond, don't you think that it would be more sensible to wait until you have this place, before marrying? In the first place, you are very young, and Agathe will not be seventeen for two months! It seems to me that you can afford to wait a little while."

"You are always right, madame. When I take mademoiselle for my wife, I wish to a.s.sure her a comfortable position in life, at least; I do not wish to have to tremble for the future. Now that I know that you consent to our union, now that we are engaged, I shall have the courage to wait; but I shall so arrange matters that the time will soon come when I shall be able to offer her a husband worthy of her."

"Oh! I am not ambitious!" cried Agathe; "I don't care about wealth!"

"Hush, mademoiselle!" said Honorine; "I really believe that you have less sense than Monsieur Edmond. Luckily, I have enough for you. Here you are engaged! you are to be pitied, are you not? And now the slanderous tongues of the neighborhood can wag all they choose! Poucette will be justified in saying to them:

"'If Monsieur Edmond Didier does come to my mistress's house often, it's because he's engaged to Mademoiselle Agathe.'"

The young lovers were beside themselves with joy, and Edmond left the house with the a.s.surance that he was beloved, and that his dearest wish would be fulfilled some day.

Honorine left Agathe to enjoy that delicious reverie which always follows the certainty of being united to the object of one's choice, and went down alone to the garden.

It was a superb day, and it was a joy to breathe the pure air of the country.

Honorine was pensive too, and sighed without asking herself why.

When she reached the end of the garden, she opened the little gate which gave access to an unfrequented road from which one had an extensive view of the surrounding country.

Honorine glanced instinctively in the direction of the Tower. She walked, unconsciously, a few steps along the road and seated herself at the foot of a huge walnut tree, on another uprooted tree which formed a natural bench.

She had been sitting there for some time, happy in Agathe's happiness, and thinking that it must be very sweet to inspire love in a person to whom one is attracted, when she felt, all of a sudden, something rub against her hand; her first feeling was one of alarm, but it speedily vanished when she saw beside her Ami, the beautiful dog belonging to the owner of the Tower.

Ami was not backward in manifesting his pleasure at the meeting; he licked her hands and played about her; he even carried his familiarity so far as to put his paws on the young woman's lap now and then. But she received these tokens of affection with pleasure, and while she patted Ami's head and neck, she glanced about her, for the dog's presence always announced his master's. But she looked in vain--she could see no one.

Ami left her for a moment; he too seemed to be looking in all directions; then he returned to Honorine, and barked as if he wished to ask a question.

"I see plainly what you are looking for, good dog; you are asking me where Agathe is--Agathe, whom you are used to seeing with me always. I am alone to-day; you must be content with my company. But you too are alone, Ami; how is it that you come here without your master? You are far from home. Did you leave the Tower to come to see us? Did your master send you here? Have you some message? Are you going back soon?"

The dog, after listening a moment, lay down at Honorine's feet and stretched himself out there with that unrestraint, that unfeigned laziness which dogs exhibit when they have found a spot which they like.

"He doesn't act as if he intended to go away," thought Honorine; "it's singular; I wonder if his master is anywhere about?"

At that moment Ami turned his head quickly, but did not leave his place.

The young woman looked in the direction to which the dog seemed to call her attention, and she saw the owner of the Tower climbing a little path which led from the village to the road by which she was then sitting.

Paul had not seen her, but he could not fail to pa.s.s her in a moment.

Honorine lowered her eyes, but she let her arm rest on the dog, as if to ask him not to leave her. A few seconds later Paul had halted in front of the young woman; and his dog gazed at him earnestly, without moving from his place, as if to say: "I am very comfortable here!"

"Really, madame, I am afraid that Ami presumes too far upon your kindness to him," said Paul, as he bowed to Honorine; "he is altogether too unceremonious; you should send him away."

"Oh! monsieur, why should I send the good dog away, when he shows such a friendly feeling for me? it is not such a common thing; and one can depend upon it in his case, I fancy?"

"Oh! yes, yes! and in no other!"

"Do you really mean that you make no other exception, monsieur? It must be very melancholy to think that no one can ever have a friendly feeling for one!"

Paul made no reply; he remained standing in front of the young woman; but he gazed fixedly at his dog and seemed to be studying the contented expression that he read in his eyes.

"Monsieur," said Honorine after a moment, "if you care to rest a while, this tree trunk on which I am sitting is quite large enough for two. I do not ask you to come into the house, although it is within a few steps; for, as you have never deigned to accept our invitations, I am bound to presume that they do not please you."

Ami's master made no reply, but he seated himself on the tree trunk, beside the young woman; and his dog, who had followed him with his eyes, stretched out one of his paws and rested it on his master, looking at him with an expression of the greatest satisfaction.

Honorine waited expecting that her neighbor would speak to her, but he maintained silence and seemed absorbed in his reflections.

The young woman, who was very desirous to talk, decided to begin.

"Have you lived in this part of the country long, monsieur?"

"A little more than nine years, madame."

"And you live alone on your estate?"

"Practically alone."

"You abandoned the world very young."

"One finds it easy to leave what one despises!"

"Oh! pray let me believe, monsieur, that that contempt does not include the whole world."

"Doubtless there are exceptions, madame; but I have been so cruelly tried, that I am quite justified in entertaining a bad opinion of men."

"And of women too, perhaps?"

"Of women even more!"

"Really? And because one woman deceived you, you despise them all! Allow me to tell you, monsieur, that all women are not alike!"

"They have all been alike to me, however!"

"Ah! you have been deceived by several?"

"So long as it is only a matter of pleasure--of follies, if you will--one can always make excuses, forgive; but there is a kind of treachery that reaches the heart, that has deplorable, heartrending consequences, and that leads to irreparable disasters! Ah! that sort of treachery one never forgives!"

"No; but one pours out his grief upon the bosom of a friend, who comforts one, who strives to make one forget one's suffering, or at least to alleviate it."