"Then, you really mean that you are going?" asked Bijou sorrowfully, as Jeanne Dubuisson folded her dresses into the tray of a long basket trunk.

"Yes," answered the young girl, absorbed in what she was doing, and without even looking up. "I have been here a long time; it would be taking advantage to stay longer, you know."

"You know very well that it would be nothing of the kind; and it was almost settled that you were to stay until Monday, and then, all at once, you changed your mind. What is the matter?"

"Why, nothing at all. What do you imagine could be the matter?"

"If I knew, I should not ask you. Come, now! what can it be? you don't seem to find things too dull?"

"Oh, Bijou, however could I find things dull?"

"Oh, well, you might; and yet, you see your fiancÉ almost as much as when you were at Pont-sur-Loire."

"Oh, no—"

"Oh, yes; let us reckon, shall we? M. Spiegel went to Paris for Saturday, Sunday, and Monday; Tuesday he came here to dinner with M. Dubuisson; Wednesday he came alone; Thursday he managed to swallow the confirmation luncheon, poor man; Friday he was here to dinner; and every day we have been rehearsing our play either before or after dinner, so that he has never been away from you."

"Yes, that's true," answered Jeanne reluctantly; "but if he has not been away from me, he has scarcely troubled about me at all."

"How do you mean?"

"How? Oh! it is simple enough! He has only troubled about you; he has talked to no one but you."

"To me?"

"Yes, to you—there! I may as well own it, Bijou; I am jealous—frightfully jealous."

"Jealous of whom? Of me?" asked Denyse, with a startled look.

Mademoiselle Dubuisson nodded, and then she proceeded to explain, whilst the tears rose to her eyes:

"You must forgive me for telling you this. I can see that I am causing you pain, but it is better, is it not, to tell the truth, than to let you suspect all kinds of wrong reasons? You are not angry with me?"

"No; not at all!" And then Bijou added sorrowfully: "It is you who ought rather to be angry with me. But you are mistaken, I assure you! M. Spiegel, who is very polite, has taken notice of me simply because I am the grandchild of his hostess, and not for any other reason."

"He has taken notice of you for the same reason which makes everyone take notice of you—just because you are adorable, and you know that very well!"

"Oh, no! I—"

"It was quite certain that he would be fascinated by you, just as all the others are, and I was very silly not to have foreseen what would happen. I counted too much on his affection—I thought that he loved me just as I love him—I was mistaken, that's all!"

"Then I shall not see anything more of you? You will avoid all opportunities of meeting me?"

"No; we shall spend the whole of the day together at the paper-chase."

"As you will be driving, and I shall be riding, I shall not be much in your way."

Bijou was silent for a minute, and then she began again in an anxious tone:

"You don't think, at any rate, that it is my fault—what has happened?"

"No," answered Jeanne; "I don't think anything, except that you are a charming girl, and I am merely common-place. Bijou, dear, don't make yourself wretched about it, please!"

"I should be so unhappy if I were not to see anything more of you!"

"But you will see me! The day after to-morrow I am coming back to Bracieux for your play. I must, you know, considering that we are both acting, M. Spiegel and I."

"Why do you say, 'M. Spiegel'? Why do you not say Franz like you always do? Are you angry with him?"

"On Saturday," continued Jeanne, without answering Bijou's question, "we shall see each other at the races, and then again at the Tourvilles' dance; you see we shall scarcely be separated at all."

"All the same it won't be as though you were staying here," answered Bijou, with a sorrowful look, "and, then, too, I know very well that you are going away feeling different towards me."

Just at this moment the maid entered the room.

"Madame wishes to speak to mademoiselle in the drawing-room."

"In the drawing-room at this time of day!" exclaimed Bijou, in surprise.

"M. de Clagny is there."

"Oh! very well! Say that I am coming at once."

"Will you go down with me?" asked Bijou, turning to Mademoiselle Dubuisson.

"No, I want to finish packing my trunk, as it is to be sent to Pont-sur-Loire after luncheon."

---

A quarter of an hour later, Bijou returned in great glee.

"Ah! you don't know something. We are going to spend the evening together to-day!"

"Where?"

"Guess!"

"Oh! I don't know. At the theatre?"

"Right! How did you guess that?"

"Because you said over and over again before M. de Clagny how much you wanted to go to that performance organised by the Dames de France. I suppose he has offered you a box?"

"Two boxes! yes, just imagine it; two beautiful big boxes, each one for six persons! And so we have at once arranged with your father that you are to come—M. Spiegel as well, of course—I forgot to tell you that they are there—your father and M. Spiegel. M. de Clagny brought them with him."

"But three of us will be too many for you," began Jeanne.

"When I have just told you that there are twelve places! Come, now—Grandmamma and I, that makes two, and you three, that makes five; there are seven places over, and no one wants to come."

"The Rueilles?"

"Paul, but not Bertrade; that makes six. Neither Jean nor Henry are coming, nor Uncle Alexis either, and Pierrot has got into a scrape. Then there is M. de Clagny, and I thought of offering a place to M. Giraud, so that makes us eight altogether."

Mademoiselle Dubuisson did not speak, and Bijou went on:

"You do not care about spending this evening with us, or, rather, with me, and so you are trying to find a pretext?"

"Oh, no, I am not trying to find anything: besides, since it is all arranged with papa—"

"Yes, it is quite settled. I had invited M. de BernÈs, too; but he makes out that he cannot come, because he is going with his friends."

"Where did you see M. de BernÈs?"

"In the drawing-room just a minute ago. Ah, of course you did not know. He has come to bring the invitation for M. Giraud. Jean wrote to him for it, because M. Giraud wanted to go to the paper-chase, and as there are refreshments offered by the officers to their guests, grandmamma is so scrupulous that she would not take him without an invitation."

"Then M. de BernÈs is staying to luncheon, too?"

"No, he has gone again; he is the hare, you know, and the meeting-place is at the cross-roads at three o'clock; it is quite near for us, but for those who come from Pont-sur-Loire, it's a good step."

"What time do we start?"

"At half-past two the carriages, and a quarter past two those who are riding—Do you know—I feel inclined to dress before luncheon, so that I should not have to think any more about it."

"You have half an hour."

"Well, you are ready. Come with me while I dress, will you?"

Jeanne followed Bijou in a docile way, as the latter hurried along the corridors, singing as she went.

"You are always gay," remarked Jeanne, "but this morning it seems to me that you are particularly joyful. What is it that makes you so?"

"Why, nothing! I am delighted about the paper-chase, and the theatre; then, too, it is beautiful weather, the sky is so blue, the flowers so fresh and beautiful, it seems to me delicious to be alive—but that's all!"

"Oh, well, that's something at any rate."

"Sit down," said Bijou, pushing Mademoiselle Dubuisson into a cosy arm-chair.

Jeanne sat down, and looked round at the pretty room. The walls were hung with pale pink cretonne, with a design of large white poppies. The ceiling, too, was pink, and the Louis Seize furniture was lacquered pink. There were flowers everywhere, in strange-shaped glass vases, and the air was laden with a delicious, penetrating perfume, a mixture of chypre, iris, and a scent like new-mown hay.

Jeanne inhaled this perfume with delight.

"What do you put in your room to make it smell like this?" she asked.

"Does it smell of something? I do not smell anything—anyhow, I don't use scent for it," answered Bijou, sniffing the air around her with all her might.

"Oh! why, that's incredible!" exclaimed Jeanne astounded. "But do you mean truly that you do not put anything at all to scent your room?"

"Absolutely nothing."

Denyse was moving about, getting everything she required before changing her dress. She was not long in putting on her habit, and as she stood before the long glass, putting a few finishing touches to her toilette, Jeanne could not help admiring her.

"How well it fits you!" she said. "It looks as though it had been moulded on you—it really is perfection! And then, too, you have such a pretty figure!"

Denyse was just putting a pearl pin into her white cravat. The point broke with a little sharp click.

"Oh!" exclaimed Jeanne, "what a pity!"

"It doesn't matter," answered Bijou, "for it was not up to much. If I win my bet with M. de BernÈs, I will let him give me a strong pin," and then, with a laugh, she added: "and not an expensive one, so that it will not seem like a present."

"You have made a bet with M. de BernÈs?"

"Yes."

"And you have to choose your present?"

"Yes. Is there any harm in it?"

"Harm? No! but it is odd."

"Well! you are like grandmamma. She was scandalised, grandmamma was."

"Well, it is odd, you know! And what have you been betting—you and M. de BernÈs?"

"I, that there would be, at least, one accident at the paper-chase; and he, that there would not be one at all."

"Well, but that's very possible."

"Oh, no! it is not very possible! There always are accidents; it would be the first paper-chase without one. Take notice that it is merely a question of a fall—just a simple fall—the person falls down, and is picked up again. I do not predict that anyone will be killed, you understand?"

"Well, don't you go and have a fall, at any rate."

"Oh, as to me!" said Bijou, her eyes shining with merriment, "there is no danger. Patatras has never been stronger on his legs. Pass me the scissors, will you, please, they are just by the side of you?"

Jeanne watched her admiringly as she stood in front of the long glass.

"There is not a single crease anywhere in your habit, and what a pretty figure you have, really, Bijou."

---

When, at a quarter past two, punctual, as usual, Bijou appeared on the stone steps in front of the half-door, she found Henry de Bracieux there, Jean de Blaye, and Pierrot. M. de Rueille had not yet come downstairs.

The horses, which had been waiting a few minutes, were somewhat restless, as the flies were worrying them. Patatras alone was perfectly calm, nibbling at the hazel tree, and looking peaceably at what was going on around him.

Presently Bertrade opened a window, and called out:

"Don't wait for Paul. He is only just beginning to dress. He will catch you up."

"Would you like to start, Bijou?" proposed Jean.

"I feel almost inclined to let you start without me," she answered, in an undecided way. "Your three horses are jumping about like mad things; they will excite Patatras, who is quite peaceful now. Start on, at any rate—I will join you out there. Nothing annoys me more than to ride a horse that is pulling so that you can hardly hold him in, and that is what I should have to put up with, for certain, if I start with you."

"Then you are going to wait for Paul?" asked Henry, looking bad-tempered.

Bijou pointed to the carriages, which were just coming out of the stable-yard.

"No, I am going to escort grandmamma."

"Well, that is just what will rouse your horse up," said Jean de Blaye.

"Oh, no! Don't you think I know my horse? Anyhow, all I ask you is to start off, and not to trouble yourselves about me."

"You are charming, really," observed Pierrot, moving towards his pony, and then turning towards the others, he added majestically, although, in a vexed tone: "Let us leave her, then, as she does not want to go with us."

"I think that's the only choice left us in the matter," answered Jean, half vexed and half laughing, as he mounted his horse.

Just as they were all three disappearing round the bend of the drive, M. de Clagny came out of the hall. He was looking to see whether his mail-coach had been put in, and was astonished to find Bijou there.

"How nice you look in that red habit," he said, in his admiration. "Generally, red makes anyone look pale, but you—why, it makes you look rosier than ever, if that is possible."

When he heard that she was going to accompany the carriages as far as the meeting-place he was perfectly happy.

The marchioness soon arrived, followed by all the others. She got into the landau with the Dubuissons and M. Spiegel, whilst M. de Clagny took on his coach Madame de Rueille, the children, AbbÉ Courteil, M. de Jonzac, and M. Giraud. The latter was hypnotised to such a degree by Bijou, who was waiting, ready mounted, for the others to start, that he almost fell off the coach instead of sitting down.

The sun was shining brilliantly when they at last set out on their journey. M. de Clagny was much more taken up with Bijou than with the four horses he was driving. He watched her trotting in front of him, near to the carriage in which the marchioness was driving.

It was the first time he had seen her on horseback, and she seemed to him incomparably pretty and elegant. Whilst he was thus watching her with singular attention, Madame de Bracieux called out to her from the landau:

"What a horribly hot day it is, Bijou dear. I don't like to see you in this blazing sunshine!"

Denyse turned round with a very rosy face.

"Nor do I either, grandmamma, I don't like to see myself in it at all!" She was silent a moment and then she continued: "When we come across Jean, Henry, and Pierrot, I shall desert you."

"Do you think we shall come across them?"

"Oh, yes, certainly! They are going along through the wood, almost the same road that we are taking with the carriages. They are only some twelve or fifteen yards away from us; I heard them a little while ago. As soon as I see them I shall leave you!"

M. de Clagny called to Bijou in order to warn her about a hundred things to avoid. In the coppice she was to beware of the branches; that very morning he had been almost taken out of his saddle when galloping in the wood. She was to take care, too, of the burrows—the wood was full of them; and then she was not to jump all in a heap, as it were; she must never do that, but always remember to lean forward or hold back.

She listened to all this advice smilingly, and with a certain affectionate deference.

"How good you are, Bijou!" he finished up with at last. "How is it you do not tell your old friend who worries you so to go about his business?"

Just at this moment a horseman crossed the road about two hundred yards in front of the carriages, and entered the forest.

"Ah!" said the count, "there's BernÈs throwing his paper! he's gone in for the right way of doing things, that is, to go along the whole route first in the opposite direction, dropping the paper, then afterwards one has only to fly along, without troubling about anything."

"What time is it?" asked Bijou.

"Twenty minutes to three," answered Bertrade, looking at her watch. "We shall get to the meet much too soon."

M. de Clagny let his horses walk, and Bijou caught up with the landau again, and began talking to Jeanne. Suddenly she bent her head as though listening to something.

"Ah, there they are!" she exclaimed. "I can hear them!"

"Whom do you hear?" asked the marchioness.

"Why, the others; they are there, and I am going to them. Good-bye, grandmamma." She crossed the ditch at the side of the road, and then pulled up, and, throwing a kiss to Jeanne, called out: "Good-bye to you, too."

But the landau was some distance on, and the coach was just passing. Giraud, seated at the back with the children, was the only one who was looking in Bijou's direction, and it was he who received the farewell kiss she threw to her friend.

"Are you sure to find them?" asked the count, turning round on the box-seat.

"Why, they are only a few steps away," she answered, pointing to the wood. "I have just seen Henry."

Whereupon she disappeared in the thicket, and M. de Clagny looked after her, with an anxious expression on his face.

As soon as she had found a path, Bijou set off at a gallop, going straight ahead, listening eagerly, and looking out as far as she could see in front of her through the gloom of the wood.

Quite suddenly she turned abruptly aside, and rode some little distance into the brushwood, where she remained without moving, and doing all she could to prevent Patatras from making the dead branches crackle under his feet.

Along the path which she had just left came Henry de Bracieux, Jean de Blaye, and Pierrot.

When they were almost level with the spot where Denyse was hiding, they pulled up to wait for a horse that they heard galloping quite near them.

"Whatever have you been doing?" asked Henry, as M. de Rueille appeared in sight. "It is quite ten minutes ago since we saw you at the bottom of the Belles-Feuilles road."

"Where is Bijou?" asked M. de Rueille anxiously, without replying to Henry's question.

"She left us in the lurch, and started with the carriages," answered Pierrot contemptuously.

"Ah!" exclaimed Rueille, in a disappointed tone. And then, turning to his brother-in-law, he continued: "What have I been doing? well, I stopped a minute or two to speak to BernÈs, who was with his lady-love; she had come in a cab to a quiet spot, where no one would think of meeting her, just for the sake of seeing BernÈs for two or three minutes; they cannot go a day without seeing each other. She's a very pretty girl."

"Yes," said Jean de Blaye, "and a sweet little thing too; and she's been well brought up."

"I had never seen her so near before."

"Now that your horse has had a rest, Paul, we had better get on our way, or we shall miss the start."

"Yes," answered M. de Rueille, setting off again; "but we have plenty of time. BernÈs is behind me, you know."

As soon as they had gone on some distance, Bijou came out of the brushwood again. Her complexion was wonderfully brilliant, and eyes shone with the deep blue flame which sometimes made their usually gentle expression disconcerting.

---

Hubert de BernÈs stayed a few minutes, after M. de Rueille had left him, talking to Lisette Renaud.

"Well, then, it is settled?" asked the pretty actress. "In spite of the dinner, you will come early to the theatre?"

"Yes."

"You will stay in my loge?"

"No! I must appear in the theatre."

"But you have a horror of La VivandiÈre,—which I can quite understand—and yet you are going to see it again?"

When Bijou had invited BernÈs to come into Madame de Bracieux's box, he had refused, knowing that it would grieve Lisette to see him there.

Mademoiselle de Courtaix was very well known in Pont-sur-Loire, and was greatly admired by society women and those who were not society women. Her costumes were imitated, and her wonderful beauty envied, for it was said that she was quite irresistible. The young lieutenant was perfectly aware that he, too, had been fascinated by her charms the last few days. His affection for Lisette had hitherto rendered him proof against all such fascination. He was passionately fond of the faithful and devoted young actress, who, for the last two years, had loved him so truly, and who would never accept from him any presents but flowers or trifling souvenirs, which were of no pecuniary value.

Lisette earned some thirty pounds a month at the Pont-sur-Loire theatre, and she had declared that she would not receive from him any presents whatever of any value. He had not dared to insist, as he had feared to wound her feelings, or to cause an estrangement between them. She was very beautiful, but he loved her more for her qualities of mind and heart than for her beauty.

Since he had begun to pay attention to Bijou, whom, until now, he had scarcely ever noticed, he had felt greatly disturbed. It was all in vain that he had said to himself, over and over again, that Lisette, with her large expressive eyes, her delicate complexion, her dazzlingly white teeth, and her beautiful, elegant figure, was far prettier than Mademoiselle de Courtaix. In spite of all this, Bijou's violet eyes, her curly hair, and tempting lips, haunted him.

Lisette, although she had no idea that her happiness was in danger, felt a sort of uneasiness take possession of her, and a vague sadness come over her. She could not understand why BernÈs should answer her question in such a harsh way.

"I shall have to see La VivandiÈre again because, in order to refuse a seat that was offered me in a box, I was obliged to say that I had promised to go with some of my brother-officers to the theatre."

"Who was it who offered you a place?"

"An old lady whom you do not know—Madame de Bracieux—you are much wiser now, are you not?"

"Madame de Bracieux," she said, feeling sad, without knowing exactly why she should feel so. "She is the grandmother of Mademoiselle de Courtaix."

"How did you know that?" he asked, in surprise.

"Why, just as everyone else knows it in Pont-sur-Loire."

"In the meantime," he said, in an irritated tone, "I shall miss the meet if I don't look out."

"Don't stay," said Lisette regretfully, "enjoy yourself—and I shall see you this evening?"

"Yes—this evening." Just as he was entering the wood, he turned round in his saddle, and called out: "Above all, take care that they do not see you; don't go where the carriages are."

And then, taking the path along which Bijou had gone, some little time before, he put his horse to a sharp gallop, in order to make up for lost time. Suddenly he stopped short, trying to distinguish something which he saw some distance ahead of him.

"Well!" he said to himself, "if it isn't a horse without its rider!—some fine gentleman has got himself landed already." As he drew nearer, he saw that the horse had a lady's saddle, and he uttered a cry as he perceived Bijou lying on her back on the grass to the right of the path. One of her arms was stretched out crosswise, and the other was down at her side, her eyes were closed, and her lips parted.

BernÈs sprang to the ground, fastened his horse up, and then taking Denyse in his arms, tried to prop her up against a tree. When, however, the girl's head fell languidly on his shoulder, he drew her to him, and, bending over her, kissed her soft curly hair over and over again.

"Bijou, dear Bijou!" he murmured, in spite of himself; "listen to me, will you? answer me—speak to me—I am so wretched seeing you like this."

At the end of two or three minutes Denyse gave a very gentle sigh, and opened her eyes slowly.

At the sight of BernÈs her grave face lighted up with a smile.

"Ah!" she murmured, "wasn't it stupid, that fall?"

"How did you manage it?" he asked.

"I don't know. I fancy my horse put his foot in a hole."

"And you went up in the air?"

"That was it," she answered, laughing.

"Are you hurt?"

"Not the least bit in the world!" And then she added pensively: "It's very nice of you to trouble about me, and all the more so as you do not like me, I know."

Hubert de BernÈs turned as red as a tomato.

"Oh, mademoiselle, how can you think—"

"I do think so—"

"Well, but," he began, in an anxious voice, "tell me at least whatever makes you imagine such a thing?"

"Oh, everything and nothing; it would take too long to explain. Well, this morning, for instance, when I asked you to go with us to the theatre, you looked quite annoyed, and you refused; oh, yes—out and out. Well, why did you refuse?"

"But, mademoiselle, I—I assure you—"

"There you see, you cannot find a word to say, not even the most common-place excuse."

Shaking her head so that her hair came down and fell over the young man's shoulder and against his face, she went on talking, laughing all the time, and still leaning against him for support.

"I don't mind, though, at all, for whether you want to or not now, you will have to come with us to the theatre; you cannot refuse."

"But—"

"Oh, there is no but about it. I will have that now for the payment of our bet."

"Our bet?"

"Well, did we not make a bet? I, that there would be an accident, because there always are accidents, you know; and you, that there would not be one at all."

"Yes, but—"

"Well, it seems to me that this is one. Don't you consider it enough—my accident? Well, I wonder what more you want?"

"Yes, it's true," he managed to stammer out. "What an idiot I am! the fact is, I was so frightened—if you only knew."

She looked up at him with a sweet expression in her beautiful eyes, and he was fascinated by her sweetness.

"Thank you again," she said, holding out her little hand to him; "thank you for looking after me; and now you had better go on quickly."

"But can you mount again?"

"Not just yet—I feel a sort of stiffness, and a tired feeling all over. No, will you go on and tell M. de Clagny to come with his carriage and fetch me; don't say anything about it to the others; I don't want grandmamma to know."

As Hubert de BernÈs was holding her hand pressed against his lips, Bijou went on impatiently:

"Go now, quickly! ask M. de Clagny to leave his carriage on the road, and explain to him that he will find me in the wood near the road, just where I left him a little while ago. And will you fasten Patatras to a tree before you go away? Thank you!" She looked at him again with her sweetest expression, and asked once more: "It's settled, then, for this evening, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's quite settled," he answered.

As soon as he was out of sight, she lay down again in exactly the same position in which BernÈs had found her.

A little later the sound of carriage-wheels was heard along the road, and M. de Clagny, getting down from his coach, entered the wood. At the sight of Bijou, he uttered a cry of horror, and, rushing to her, took her in his arms in his anxiety and anguish.

"Bijou, my love! my darling! dear little Bijou!" And then, like BernÈs, he added: "listen to me, Bijou dear; answer me; please speak to me!"

He kissed her soft hair, and drew her closer and closer to him, until at last she opened her eyes, and looked up at him with her pretty, innocent expression; and then, as though she were going to sleep again, she murmured, as she laid her head confidingly against him:

"Ah, you are so nice to me; and I am so happy like this! I should like to stay here always!"

---