For a whole week there was scarcely anything else thought about but the rehearsals of the little play, which was to be given the day after the races.

The La Balues, the Juzencourts, and Madame de NÉzel, came to Bracieux nearly every day, and M. de Clagny also, for he was very much interested in the rehearsals. He acted as prompter when Giraud, who had undertaken this post, was occupied, and he appeared to be delighted whenever he saw Bijou acting.

"Old Dubuisson" and M. Spiegel had been to dinner several times, and Denyse, under the pretext of letting him be more with his fiancÉe, had persuaded the young professor to take a minor rÔle, in which he was execrable. Perhaps Jeanne had noticed this, as the last few days she seemed to be low-spirited, and she was not as even-tempered as usual. Her father was astonished to see her frequently with tears in her eyes, and for no apparent motive, so that at last he declared that "she must be sickening for some illness or another."

The Rueilles had not left Bracieux. Bertrade felt that everyone was against her, as it were, and had resigned herself to the inevitable; she had quite given up the plan she had proposed, and was now letting herself drift along, carried forward by the society whirl in which she was living.

Young BernÈs arrived one evening to invite the marchioness and her guests to a paper-chase which was being organised by his regiment. He, himself, was to be hare, and all kinds of obstacles were being put up; there had never been so fine a paper-chase run in the forest.

Bijou at once persuaded her grandmother to allow her to follow on horseback, M. de Rueille and Jean de Blaye both answering for it that nothing should happen to her. She was, besides, very prudent, like most people who are accustomed to riding, and who ride well, and she always managed to avoid accidents, and not to run useless risks.

Madame de Bracieux kept Hubert to dinner, and in the evening, as she watched Denyse talking to him, she said to Bertrade:

"It's very odd. It seems to me that Bijou is not at all the same now with that young man. She used to just give him an indifferent sort of bow, and then leave him alone, and now it seems almost as though she were 'gone' on him, to use your elegant language. She has quite changed her attitude towards him," continued the marchioness, puzzled.

"And he, too, has quite changed his attitude towards her," said Madame de Rueille.

"Yes, hasn't he? The first few times he came to Bracieux, I was struck with his coolness towards our sweet girl, whom everyone adores. He was just simply polite to her, and that was all."

"At present, he is not very far gone, but there is considerable progress; he is preparing to follow in the pathway which has been beaten out by others."

"Just lately, when you were talking to me about Bijou getting married, had you any idea in the background?" asked the marchioness, looking at Madame de Rueille.

Bertrade repeated the question without replying to it.

"An idea in the background?"

"Yes. Were you, for instance, thinking that Bijou was in love with this young BernÈs?"

"I told you that same day, grandmamma, that it is my belief Bijou is not in love, never has been in love, and never will be in love with anyone."

"If you had said that, as you say it now, I should most certainly have protested. It would be impossible, in my opinion, to be more absolutely and completely mistaken than you are. Never to love anyone?—Bijou!—when there never was anyone who needed to be loved and petted as she does."

"She needs to be loved and petted—yes, I grant that; but she always requires people to love and pet her, and she does not feel the need of loving and petting others in her turn."

"In other words, she is selfish and cold-hearted?" questioned the marchioness, her voice suddenly taking a harsh tone. "The fact is, Bertrade, you have a grudge against Bijou, because of the charm there is about her: you are angry with her, because no one can resist being fascinated by her, and instead of blaming Paul, who is the real culprit, you accuse the poor child in this cruel way."

"I do not accuse Bijou any more than I do Paul, grandmamma: and I should be all the less likely to accuse them, because I do not think that we are exactly free agents in such matters; yes, I know that you will be scandalised at my saying such a thing—I can see that very well. You think it is blasphemy, don't you? And yet, Heaven knows that the thoughts which come to me sometimes on this subject make me much more tolerant and indulgent towards others—"

M. de Clagny approached the two ladies just at this moment.

"What are you two plotting in this little corner?"

"Nothing," said Madame de Bracieux; "we were watching Bijou, who seems to be taming your young friend BernÈs."

"Taming him? Whatever do you mean by that?" asked the count, turning round with a disturbed look on his face.

"Well, I mean just what everyone means when they make that remark! A week ago, when the young man dined here with us, he was like an icicle; well, I fancy that the thaw has set in."

"Oh!" exclaimed M. de Clagny, suddenly looking serene again; "I forgot that he has a love affair, and is so far gone that he fully intends to marry this lady-love; and, as you can imagine, his father is not delighted about it, by any means." And then, in an absent-minded way, he added, "I feel perfectly easy, as far as he is concerned!"

"Easy!" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux in astonishment "Why, easy! you would not like Bijou to marry M. de BernÈs, then? Why not?"

"Well—she is so young," he stammered out, in a confused sort of way.

"How do you mean, so young? She is quite old enough to marry; she will be twenty-two in November, Bijou!"

"Well, then, Hubert is too young for her; he is only a lad!"

"I should certainly prefer seeing her married to a man rather more settled down; but, if she should care for him, he is of good family, and is wealthy, why should she not marry him as well as any other?"

"Do you really think that Bijou cares for him?" asked M. de Clagny anxiously.

"I don't know anything about it at all," answered the marchioness, laughing; "but anyhow, what can that matter to you? I can understand that Jean or Henry should be disturbed in their minds—but you?" As he did not reply, she went on: "It's a case of the dog in the manger: he does not want the bone himself, but he does not want the others to have it either. That is just your case, my poor friend, for, I presume, you have no idea of marrying Bijou yourself?"

He answered in a joking way, but there was a troubled look on his face.

"Oh, as to me, it is an idea that I should like very much; but she would not; therefore it amounts to the same thing!"

Bijou came up to them just at that moment, gliding along with her light step. She was followed by young BernÈs, who looked vexed about something.

"I cannot, really, mademoiselle," he was saying, "I assure you that I cannot get away from my friends that day."

"Oh, yes, you can; mustn't he, grandmamma?" asked Denyse merrily, "mustn't M. de BernÈs come to dinner here on the day of the paper-chase? He is to be the hare, and the start is to be from the 'Cinq-TranchÉes'—it is only a mile from Bracieux at the farthest."

Madame de Bracieux was examining the young officer with interest, and there was a kindly look in her eyes.

"Why, certainly," she said, "he must come here to dinner; we shall all be so pleased."

"You are very kind, madame, to invite me, but I was explaining to Mademoiselle de Courtaix that on that day, after the paper-chase, which the regiment is getting up for the benefit of the residents, I have promised faithfully to dine with several of my friends." And glancing, in spite of himself, at Bijou, he added, "And I regret it now, more than I can tell you!"

Turning round on her high heels, Denyse glided off again to the other end of the long room, where she was greeted by Pierrot with reproachful words.

"It was very mean of you to slope away from us like that, you know!" exclaimed the boy.

M. de Jonzac, who was playing billiards with the abbÉ, was also keeping one ear open to catch what was going on round him. He now protested against the way in which Pierrot expressed himself, even supposing that the reproach itself were just.

"Well, yes," answered his son, "it's quite true that I'm not over-particular about what words I use, but that doesn't prevent what I said being true; and the others said it too, just now; I wasn't the only one."

"Mademoiselle," said Giraud, who was standing near the large bay-window, looking out at the sky, "you said yesterday that you liked shooting stars—I have never seen so many as there are to-night."

"Really?" replied Denyse, going to the window, and leaning her arms on the ledge, side by side with the tutor, "are there as many as all that? What's that to the left?" she asked, bending forward. "I can see something white on the terrace."

"It is Mademoiselle Dubuisson, who is strolling about with her father and M. Spiegel."

"Ah! supposing we went out to them—shall we?"

Giraud led the way at once, only too happy to go out for a stroll on this beautiful starry night. When they were near the terrace, she stopped suddenly.

"Perhaps we shall be de trop," she said; "they may be talking of private affairs. Let us go to the chestnut avenue, and they'll come to us if they want to."

She descended the marble steps, and they were soon in the dark avenue, under the thick chestnut trees. The young man had followed her, his heart beating with excitement, almost beside himself with joy. They walked along for some little time without speaking, and then at last Bijou looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the sky between the branches of the trees.

"We shall not see much of the shooting stars here," she said.

"Oh, yes," answered Giraud, who did not want to leave this shady walk, where he had Bijou all to himself, "we can see them all the same. Look, there's one, did you see it?"

"Not distinctly, and not long enough to be able to wish anything."

"To wish anything? but what?"

"Oh! anything. Why! do you mean to say you did not know that when you see a shooting star you ought to wish something?"

"No, I did not know. And does your wish get fulfilled?"

"They say so."

"Well, then, mademoiselle, have you a wish quite ready this time, so that you will not be taken unawares?"

"Yes, certainly, I have one; but it can never be realised."

"Ah! I dare not ask you what."

"I should like to be quite different from what I am," she replied, very gently. "Yes, I should like to be a very pretty girl, in quite humble circumstances, so that I need not be obliged to go into society, and so that I could marry just whom I liked. I should like to be, in fact, happy according to my own idea of things, without troubling anything about social prejudices and conventionalities."

"Why should you wish that?" he asked, in a voice that trembled slightly.

"So that I should have the right to love anyone who loved me. I mean, openly; without having to keep it to myself." And then she added, in a very low voice, "And without reproaching myself for it."

She was walking quite close to him, so close, that their shoulders touched at every step.

Giraud was quite agitated with conflicting emotions.

"You say that—as if—as if—you did care for someone?" he stammered out.

He knew that she had turned her face towards him, but she did not speak.

Just at this moment a screech-owl, which was perched quite near them amongst the thick, dark looking foliage of the trees, gave a sudden, wailing, cry, which startled Bijou. She knocked against Giraud as she jumped aside in her fright, and he instinctively put his arms round her. Her soft, perfumed hair brushed against his lips, making him lose his head completely. He forgot everything, and, utterly oblivious of all that separated him from the young girl, he drew her closer to him in a passionate embrace, and murmured tenderly:

"Denyse!"

She let him do as he liked, without offering any resistance, but when, at last, he set her free, she said, in a tender, plaintive tone:

"Oh! how wrong it was of you to have done that, how wrong of you!" And then she hid her face in her hands, and he could hear that she was crying.

He tried to console her, but she would not allow him to stay.

"No, go away, please," she said: "they will be wondering where you are. I shall come in directly, when I am myself again."

As he was starting off in the direction of the terrace, she called him back.

"Not that way," she said. "Go round by the pool. Don't let them think you have come from here."

"Let me stay another minute, just to ask you to forgive me. Let me kiss those little hands that I love—"

"Please go! Please go!" she said, in a tone that sounded as though she mistrusted herself.

Before turning into the walk that led round by the pool, Giraud stopped a minute to get another glimpse of Denyse, who, in her light dress, looked like a white spot against the dark background of the trees. He could hear that she was still crying.

"Is that you, Bijou?" asked Jean de Blaye, coming forward in the thick darkness.

"Who is it?" asked the young girl, drawing herself up.

"It is I—Jean! Why, do you mean to say that you won't even do me the honour of recognising my voice. What are you doing out here in this pitch darkness?"

"I am taking a stroll."

"All alone?"

"I came out to join the Dubuissons, but I thought afterwards that it was better not to disturb them, and so I came here all alone."

"It must be quite a change for you to be alone, isn't it? And what in the world do you do when you are all by yourself?"

"I think."

"Oh! what a big word!"

"Well, I dream dreams, if you like that better?"

"Well I never! That's what I never should have thought you would do. They are surely not in the least like ordinary dreams—yours?"

"Because—?"

"Because dreams are usually incoherent, strange and quite improbable."

"Well?"

"Well, your dreams must be admirably sensible and reasonable; they must resemble you."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Well, for the pleasant things you are saying."

"Oh! they are not exactly pleasant things; they are true, though. Besides, I have not come here just to say pleasant things to you, but to talk to you seriously."

"Seriously?"

"Yes! I have undertaken a mission for some one else. I have promised to speak to you to the best of my ability in the name of some one who did not care to speak for himself."

"Who is this some one else?"

"Henry! He begged me to ask you whether you would authorise him to ask grandmamma for your hand?"

"My hand! Henry?" she exclaimed, and her accent expressed her bewilderment.

"Is that so very astonishing?"

"Why, yes!—it is as though he were my brother—Henry!"

"Well, but he is not your brother, nevertheless; therefore do not let us trouble about him as a brother, but as a lover. What is your answer?"

"My answer! why does Henry apply to me first? Instead of asking my permission to speak to grandmamma, he ought to have asked grandmamma's permission to speak to me."

"There; didn't I say that you were a most excellent little person, always knowing the correct thing, and all the rest of it!"

"Is it wrong of me to be like that?"

"Oh, no! it is not wrong—on the contrary! only it is a trifle embarrassing. Tell me, now that I have made this mistake in speaking to you first, will you give me an answer? or must I set to work to put matters right again, by applying now to grandmamma, who in her turn will apply to you, etc., etc."

"No, I will give you my answer."

"Well, then, let me finish my rigmarole. Count Henry de Bracieux was born on the 22nd of January, 1870. His entire fortune, until after the death of his grandmother, consists of twenty-four thousand pounds, which amount brings in—"

"Oh! you needn't trouble to tell me about money matters; in the first place, they don't interest me, and then, as I do not wish to marry Henry, it is useless to tell me all that!"

"Ah! you do not wish to marry him! Why?"

"For several reasons, the best of which is that I know him too well."

"It certainly is not very flattering, this reason of yours!"

"I mean what I said just now, that, living with Henry as I have done for the last four years, I consider him as a brother."

"Then that applies to me, too; do you look upon me, too, as a brother?" asked Jean de Blaye, trying to speak in an indifferent tone.

"You, oh, no! not at all; you are thirty-five at least!"

"No, thirty-three."

"Only that?—ah, well, it's all the same! you don't seem to me like a brother!"

She was silent a moment, thinking, whilst he stood waiting, with a sort of vague hope.

"You seem to me more like an uncle," she said at last.

"Oh!" remarked Jean, with an accent that betrayed his vexation, "that is very nice."

"You are annoyed with me for saying that?" she asked, in her pretty, coaxing way.

"Oh, not at all! I am delighted, on the contrary; it is very satisfactory, for, with you, one knows exactly what to count on; and then, if one has any delusions, well, they don't have to hang fire."

"You had delusions—what were they?"

"No, I hadn't one of any kind."

"Oh, yes, I can tell by your voice; you speak in a sharp, bitter, irritated way. Tell me why you are so bad-tempered all in a minute?" she asked, in a coaxing tone, leaning against him, and looking up into his face.

He stepped back from her as he answered:

"When one is not very good to start with, and one has trouble, it makes one go to the bad; it is inevitable!"

"And you have trouble?"

"Yes."

"Is it very bad?"

"Well, quite bad enough, thank you!"

"Poor Jean; things don't go as you want them to, then?"

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Why, about—oh, you know very well! I told you the other evening!"

"That again!" he said, getting more and more worked up; "how foolish you are!"

"What, do you mean that you do not care for Madame de NÉzel?" exclaimed Bijou.

"Madame de NÉzel is a charming woman," he stammered out, in an embarrassed way. "She is an excellent friend whom I like very much, very much indeed, but not in the way you imagine."

"Ah! so much the worse for you; she is a widow, and she is rich; she would just have suited you. Well, then, you like someone else?"

"Yes."

"Someone you cannot marry?"

"Exactly."

"Why? isn't she rich enough?"

"Oh, no, it is not that; if she had not a farthing it would be all the same to me; it is the other way round, I am not rich enough for her, and then—she would not have me."

"You do not know; you ought to tell her that you love her."

"Do you think so?"

"Why, of course—try that, at any rate."

"Very well, then, Bijou, I love you with all my heart—but I know that there is no hope, and, unfortunate wretch that I am, I dare not even ask for any."

"You love me!" she exclaimed, in deep distress, and then, stopping short, she repeated: "you—Jean?"

"Yes, and what about you? you detest me, do you not?"

"Oh, Jean, how can you say such things? You know very well that I love you, though not in the way you want me to, or as I should like to be able to, but very much, all the same; indeed I do."

She put her hand on his shoulder, obliging him to stand still, and then passed her hand over his eyes.

"Oh, Jean," she exclaimed, in great grief, "tears, and all because of me! Oh, please, don't—no, indeed you must not; do you hear me, Jean?"

He took the little hand, which was stroking his face, and kissed it passionately. Then putting Bijou, who was clinging to him, gently aside, he left her abruptly, and strode off alone.