care as the proudest devote to encouraging it when they drive about
Paris, certainly feeling no care as to whether her fair countenance
leaning over the balcony, or her little foot between the bars, and the
picture of her bright eyes and delicious turned-up nose would be
effaced or no from the minds of the passers-by who admired them; she
saw but one face, and had but one idea. When the spotted head of a
certain bay horse happened to cross the narrow strip between the two
rows of houses, Caroline gave a little shiver and stood on tiptoe in
hope of recognizing the white traces and the color of the tilbury. It
was he!

Roger turned the corner of the street, saw the balcony, whipped the
horse, which came up at a gallop, and stopped at the bronze-green door
that he knew as well as his master did. The door of the apartment was
opened at once by the maid, who had heard her mistress' exclamation of
delight. Roger rushed up to the drawing-room, clasped Caroline in his
arms, and embraced her with the effusive feeling natural when two
beings who love each other rarely meet. He led her, or rather they
went by a common impulse, their arms about each other, into the quiet
and fragrant bedroom; a settee stood ready for them to sit by the
fire, and for a moment they looked at each other in silence,
expressing their happiness only by their clasped hands, and
communicating their thoughts in a fond gaze.

"Yes, it is he!" she said at last. "Yes, it is you. Do you know, I
have not seen you for three long days, an age!--But what is the
matter? You are unhappy."

"My poor Caroline--"