That evening she took her usual seat under the broad velvety sky spangled
with gold. And with a movement which bespoke her solicitude she turned
towards the bright little light shining on the verge of the sombre woods,
a light telling of the quietude of the room in which it burnt, the
servant's tranquil vigil, and the happy slumber of the children in the
adjoining chamber. Then Marianne let her gaze wander all around her, over
the great estate of Chantebled, belonging to the Seguins. The dilapidated
pavilion stood at the extreme edge of the woods whose copses, intersected
by patches of heath, spread over a lofty plateau to the distant farms of
Mareuil and Lillebonne. But that was not all, for to the west of the
plateau lay more than two hundred and fifty acres of land, a marshy
expanse where pools stagnated amid brushwood, vast uncultivated tracts,
where one went duck-shooting in winter. And there was yet a third part of
the estate, acres upon acres of equally sterile soil, all sand and
gravel, descending in a gentle slope to the embankment of the railway
line. It was indeed a stretch of country lost to culture, where the few
good patches of loam remained unproductive, inclosed within the waste
land. But the spot had all the beauty and exquisite wildness of solitude,
and was one that appealed to healthy minds fond of seeing nature in
freedom. And on that lovely night one could nowhere have found more
perfect and more balmy quiet.

Marianne, who since coming to the district had already threaded the
woodland paths, explored the stretches of brushwood around the meres, and
descended the pebbly slopes, let her eyes travel slowly over the expanse,
divining spots she had visited and was fond of, though the darkness now
prevented her from seeing them. In the depths of the woods an owl raised
its soft, regular cry, while from a pond on the right ascended a faint
croaking of frogs, so far away that it sounded like the vibration of
crystal. And from the other side, the side of Paris, there came a growing