which, she said, had hindered her from closing her eyes all night; and
by the time the carriage had reached Saint-Denis, Madame Crochard
seemed to be fast asleep. Her snores, indeed, seemed, to the Gentleman
in Black, rather doubtfully genuine, and he frowned as he looked at
the old woman with a very suspicious eye.

"Oh, she is fast asleep," said Caroline quilelessly; "she never ceased
coughing all night. She must be very tired."

Her companion made no reply, but he looked at the girl with a smile
that seemed to say:

"Poor child, you little know your mother!"

However, in spite of his distrust, as the chaise made its way down the
long avenue of poplars leading to Eaubonne, the Stranger thought that
Madame Crochard was really asleep; perhaps he did not care to inquire
how far her slumbers were genuine or feigned. Whether it were that the
brilliant sky, the pure country air, and the heady fragrance of the
first green shoots of the poplars, the catkins of willow, and the
flowers of the blackthorn had inclined his heart to open like all the
nature around him; or that any long restraint was too oppressive while
Caroline's sparkling eyes responded to his own, the Gentleman in Black
entered on a conversation with his young companion, as aimless as the
swaying of the branches in the wind, as devious as the flitting of the
butterflies in the azure air, as illogical as the melodious murmur of
the fields, and, like it, full of mysterious love. At that season is
not the rural country as tremulous as a bride that has donned her
marriage robe; does it not invite the coldest soul to be happy? What
heart could remain unthawed, and what lips could keep its secret, on