kind intentions, that he should always love Annette as a sister, but
that he could not marry her, because he was already engaged in his own
native place. He requested him to ask his daughter if he had ever said a
single word about marriage to her; he might, indeed, have added, that he
had often spoken to her of Louise, and showed her the ring, about which
she had teased him; but he did not wish to draw the old man's reproaches
on _her_. These reproaches all fell on _him_; he bore them,
however, with so much gentleness, that Gerval, who was "_a good sort of
fellow_," was, in the end, affected by it. "Go, then, and marry your
betrothed," said he, in a half-friendly, half-vexed, tone; "since it
is not Annette, the sooner you set off the better. I must say, I shall
regret you; and you may, perhaps, sometime or other, regret old Gerval
and his daughter."

Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea
of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. During the four or five first
days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling
countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble
from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise--"Annette will
console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me? Oh, yes!--she is
so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity,
when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I
was placed." Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily,
and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette
effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with
the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each
lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or
birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri
thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise,
and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the