Caroline's reply was an exquisite smile of disbelief, which dissipated
the dark cloud that his fear of some plot on the old woman's part had
brought to this suspicious mortal's brow. Madame Crochard was amazed
at nothing, approved of everything, followed her daughter and Monsieur
Roger into the park, where the two young people had agreed to wander
through the smiling meadows and fragrant copses made famous by the
taste of Queen Hortense.

"Good heavens! how lovely!" exclaimed Caroline when standing on the
green ridge where the forest of Montmorency begins, she saw lying at
her feet the wide valley with its combes sheltering scattered
villages, its horizon of blue hills, its church towers, its meadows
and fields, whence a murmur came up, to die on her ear like the swell
of the ocean. The three wanderers made their way by the bank of an
artificial stream and came to the Swiss valley, where stands a chalet
that had more than once given shelter to Hortense and Napoleon. When
Caroline had seated herself with pious reverence on the mossy wooden
bench where kings and princesses and the Emperor had rested, Madame
Crochard expressed a wish to have a nearer view of a bridge that hung
across between two rocks at some little distance, and bent her steps
towards that rural curiosity, leaving her daughter in Monsieur Roger's
care, though telling them that she would not go out of sight.

"What, poor child!" cried Roger, "have you never longed for wealth and
the pleasures of luxury? Have you never wished that you might wear the
beautiful dresses you embroider?"

"It would not be the truth, Monsieur Roger, if I were to tell you that
I never think how happy people must be who are rich. Oh yes! I often