following days, at the same hour, both in the garden and in the court,
but never dared to think of accosting her. I even met her sometimes
near the châlets, with the little girls who drove her donkey or picked
strawberries for her, at other times, in her boat on the lake; but I
never showed any sign of recognition or interest, beyond a grave and
respectful bow; she would return it with an air of melancholy
abstraction, and we each went our separate ways, on the hills or on the
waters.




VII.


And yet when I had not met her in the course of the day, I felt sad and
disturbed; when evening came, I would go down to the garden, I knew not
why, and stay there, with my eyes riveted on her windows, spite of the
cold night air. I could not make up my mind to return to the house
until I had caught a glimpse of her shadow on the curtains, or heard a
note of her piano, or one of the strange tones of her voice.

The apartment she occupied was contiguous to my room, from which it was
separated by a strong oaken door with two bolts. I could hear
confusedly the sound of her footsteps, the rustling of her gown, or the
crumpling of the leaves of her book as she turned over the pages. I
sometimes fancied I heard her breathe. Instinctively I placed my
writing-table on which my lamp stood near the door, for I felt less
lonely when I heard these sounds of life around me. It seemed to me
that this unknown neighbor, who insensibly occupied all my time, shared