doubt of it. But when it died, what a loss it must have been to you!"
"I cried heartily, for it grieved me very, very much; and you see, M. Rodolph—for you know one loves flowers, although one hasn't any of one's own—you see, I felt grateful to it, that dear rose-tree, for blooming so kindly for me, although I was so—"
Goualeuse bent her head, and blushed deeply.
"Unhappy child! With this feeling of your own position, you must often—"
"Have desired to end it, you mean, sir?" said Goualeuse, interrupting her companion. "Yes, yes, more than once. A month ago I looked over the parapet at the Seine; but then, when I looked at the flowers, and the sun, then I said, 'The river will be always there; I am but sixteen and a half—who knows?'"
"When you said 'who knows,' you had hope?"
"Yes."
"And what did you hope?"
"To find some charitable soul who would get me work, so that I might be enabled to leave the ogress; and this hope comforted me. Then I said to myself, I am very wretched, but I have never injured anybody, and if I had any one to advise me I should not be as I am. This lightened my sorrow a little, though it had greatly increased at the loss of my rose-tree," added Goualeuse, with a sigh.
"Always so very sad."
"Yes; but look, here it is."
And Goualeuse took from her pocket a little bundle of wood trimmed very carefully, and tied with a rose-coloured bow.
"What, have you kept it?"
"I have, indeed; it is all I possess in the world."
"What, have you nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"This coral necklace?"
"Belongs to the ogress."
"And you have not a piece of riband, a cap, or handkerchief?"
"No, nothing—nothing but the dead branches of my poor rose-tree; and that is why I love it so."
When Rodolph and Goualeuse had reached the Quai aux Fleurs, a coach was waiting there, into which Rodolph handed Goualeuse. He got in himself, saying to the driver:
"To St. Denis; I will tell you presently which road to take."
The coach went on. The sun was bright, and the sky cloudless, whilst the air, fresh and crisp, circulated freely through the open windows.
"Here is a woman's cloak!" said Goualeuse, remarking that she had seated herself on the garment without having at first noticed it.
"Yes, it is for you, my child; I brought it with me for fear you should be cold."
Little accustomed to such attention, the poor girl looked at Rodolph with surprise.
"Mon Dieu! M. Rodolph, how kind you are; I am really ashamed—"
"Because I am kind?"
"No; but you do not speak as you did yesterday; you appear quite another person."
"Tell me, then, Fleur-de-Marie, which do you like best—the Rodolph of yesterday, or the Rodolph of to-day?"
"I like you better now; yet yesterday I seemed to be more your equal." Then, as if correcting herself, and fearing to have annoyed Rodolph, she said to him, "When I say your equal, M. Rodolph, I do not mean that I can ever be that."
"One thing in you astonishes me very much, Fleur-de-Marie."
"And what is that, M. Rodolph?"
"You appear to have forgotten that the Chouette said to you yesterday that she knew the persons who had brought you up."
"Oh! I have not forgotten it; I thought of it all night, and I cried bitterly; but I am sure it is not true; she invented this tale to make me unhappy."
"Yet the Chouette may know more than you think. If it were so, should you not be delighted to be restored to your parents?"
"Alas, sir! if my parents never loved me, what should I gain by discovering them? They would only see me and—But if they did ever love me, what shame I should bring on them! Perhaps I should kill them!"
"If your parents ever loved you, Fleur-de-Marie, they will pity, pardon, and still love you. If they have abandoned you, then, when they see the frightful destiny to which they have brought you, their shame and remorse will avenge you."
"What is the good of vengeance?"
"You are right; let us talk no more on the subject."
At this moment the carriage reached St. Ouen, where the road divides to St. Denis and the Revolte. In spite of the monotony of the landscape, Fleur-de-Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, as she called them, that, forgetting the sad thoughts which the recollection of the Chouette had awakened in her, her lovely countenance grew radiant with delight. She leaned out of the window, clasping her hands, and crying:
"M. Rodolph, how happy I am! Grass! Fields! May I get out? It is so fine! I should so like to run in the meadows."
"Let us run, then, my child. Coachman, stop."
"What! You, too? Will you run, M. Rodolph?"
"I'm having a holiday."
"Oh! What pleasure!"
And Rodolph and Goualeuse, taking each other's hand, ran as fast as they could over a long piece of latter-grass, just mowed. It would be impossible to describe the leaps and exclamations of joy, the intense delight, of Fleur-de-Marie. Poor lamb! so long a prisoner, she inspired the free air with indescribable pleasure. She ran, returned, stopped, and then raced off again with renewed happiness. At the sight of the daisies and buttercups Goualeuse could not restrain her transport—she did not leave one flower which she could gather. After having run about in this way for some time, she became rather tired, for she had lost the habit of exercise, and stopped to take breath, sitting down on the trunk of a fallen tree which was lying at the edge of a deep ditch.
"She Proffered to Rodolph the Bouquet" Etching by Mercier, after the drawing by Frank T. Merrill
The clear and white complexion of Fleur-de-Marie, generally rather pale, was now heightened by the brightest colour. Her large blue eyes sparkled brightly, her vermilion lips, partly opened to recover her breath, displayed two rows of liquid pearls; her bosom throbbed under her worn-out little orange shawl, and she placed one of her hands upon her heart, as if to restrain its quickened pulsation, whilst with the other hand she proffered to Rodolph the bouquet of field flowers which she had just gathered. Nothing could be more charming than the combination of innocence and pure joy which beamed on her expressive countenance. When Fleur-de-Marie could speak, she said to Rodolph, with an accent of supreme happiness and of gratitude, almost amounting to piety:
"How
