nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever
increasing, consumed it.

To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat
crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to
inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat.

And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the
load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was
filled with a wild hope.

A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the
little house, always so smart and white.

Ah! he knew it well. Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind
it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a
goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore.

There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which
crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed
of China-asters. In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than
once he had caught sight of a crabbed face.

Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour
embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern.

What shall he do if Suzanne is there? Will he dare to look at her?

Yes, he must! He must read the expression in her look. And if that look
is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop? Certainly. Why should he