A Second Home | Page 9

woman went on very
gravely, with a shake of her head:
"All right, mouth shut and tongue still! But," added she, unhooking a
bit of her bodice, and showing a ribbon and cross tied round her neck
by a piece of black ribbon, "they shall never hinder me from wearing
what he gave to my poor Crochard, and I will have it buried with me."
On hearing this speech, which at that time was regarded as seditious,
Roger interrupted the old lady by rising suddenly, and they returned to
the village through the park walks. The young man left them for a few
minutes while he went to order a meal at the best eating-house in
Taverny; then, returning to fetch them, he led the way through the
alleys cut in the forest.
The dinner was cheerful. Roger was no longer the melancholy shade
that was wont to pass along the Rue du Tourniquet; he was not the
"Black Gentleman," but rather a confiding young man ready to take life
as it came, like the two hard-working women who, on the morrow,
might lack bread; he seemed alive to all the joys of youth, his smile

was quite affectionate and childlike.
When, at five o'clock, this happy meal was ended with a few glasses of
champagne, Roger was the first to propose that they should join the
village ball under the chestnuts, where he and Caroline danced together.
Their hands met with sympathetic pressure, their hearts beat with the
same hopes; and under the blue sky and the slanting, rosy beams of
sunset, their eyes sparkled with fires which, to them, made the glory of
the heavens pale. How strange is the power of an idea, of a desire! To
these two nothing seemed impossible. In such magic moments, when
enjoyment sheds its reflections on the future, the soul foresees nothing
but happiness. This sweet day had created memories for these two to
which nothing could be compared in all their past existence. Would the
source prove to be more beautiful than the river, the desire more
enchanting than its gratification, the thing hoped for more delightful
than the thing possessed?
"So the day is already at an end!" On hearing this exclamation from her
unknown friend when the dance was over, Caroline looked at him
compassionately, as his face assumed once more a faint shade of
sadness.
"Why should you not be as happy in Paris as you are here?" she asked.
"Is happiness to be found only at Saint-Leu? It seems to me that I can
henceforth never be unhappy anywhere."
Roger was struck by these words, spoken with the glad unrestraint that
always carries a woman further than she intended, just as prudery often
lends her greater cruelty than she feels. For the first time since that
glance, which had, in a way, been the beginning of their friendship,
Caroline and Roger had the same idea; though they did not express it,
they felt it at the same instant, as a result of a common impression like
that of a comforting fire cheering both under the frost of winter; then,
as if frightened by each other's silence, they made their way to the spot
where the carriage was waiting. But before getting into it, they
playfully took hands and ran together down the dark avenue in front of
Madame Crochard. When they could no longer see the white net cap,
which showed as a speck through the leaves where the old woman

was--"Caroline!" said Roger in a tremulous voice, and with a beating
heart.
The girl was startled, and drew back a few steps, understanding the
invitation this question conveyed; however, she held out her hand,
which was passionately kissed, but which she hastily withdrew, for by
standing on tiptoe she could see her mother.
Madame Crochard affected blindness, as if, with a reminiscence of her
old parts, she was only required to figure as a supernumerary.

The adventures of these two young people were not continued in the
Rue du Tourniquet. To see Roger and Caroline once more, we must
leap into the heart of modern Paris, where, in some of the newly-built
houses, there are apartments that seem made on purpose for
newly-married couples to spend their honeymoon in. There the paper
and paint are as fresh as the bride and bridegroom, and the decorations
are in blossom like their love; everything is in harmony with youthful
notions and ardent wishes.
Half-way down the Rue Taitbout, in a house whose stone walls were
still white, where the columns of the hall and the doorway were as yet
spotless, and the inner walls shone with the neat painting which our
recent intimacy with English ways had brought into fashion, there was,
on the second floor, a small