higher, over pillars of the Ionic order. This style betrayed
the art of the architect Leveau, who had constructed, in 1650, the
castle of Joinville-sur-Oise for that rich Mareuilles, creature of
Mazarin, and fortunate accomplice of Fouquet.

Therese and Jacques saw before them the flower-beds designed by Le
Notre, the green carpet, the fountain; then the grotto with its five
rustic arcades crowned by the tall trees on which autumn had already
begun to spread its golden mantle.

"This green geometry is beautiful," said Dechartre.

"Yes," said Therese. "But I think of the tree bent in the small
courtyard where grass grows among the stones. We shall build a beautiful
fountain in it, shall we not, and put flowers in it?"

Leaning against one of the stone lions with almost human faces, that
guarded the steps, she turned her head toward the castle, and, looking
at one of the windows, said:

"There is your room; I went into it last night. On the same floor, on
the other side, at the other end, is my father's office. A white wooden
table, a mahogany portfolio, a decanter on the mantelpiece: his office
when he was a young man. Our entire fortune came from that place."

Through the sand-covered paths between the flowerbeds they walked to the
boxwood hedge which bordered the park on the southern side. They passed
before the orange-grove, the monumental door of which was surmounted by
the Lorraine cross of Mareuilles, and then passed under the linden-trees
which formed an alley on the lawn. Statues of nymphs shivered in the
damp shade studded with pale lights. A pigeon, posed on the shoulder
of one of the white women, fled. From time to time a breath of wind
detached a dried leaf which fell, a shell of red gold, where remained a
drop of rain. Therese pointed to the nymph and said:

"She saw me when I was a girl and wishing to die. I suffered from dreams
and from fright. I was waiting for you. But you were so far away!"

The linden alley stopped near the large basin, in the centre of which
was a group of tritons blowing in their shells to form, when the waters
played, a liquid diadem with flowers of foam.

"It is the Joinville crown," she said.

She pointed to a pathway which, starting from the basin, lost itself in
the fields, in the direction of the rising sun.

"This is my pathway. How often I walked in it sadly! I was sad when I
did not know you."

They found the alley which, with other lindens and other nymphs, we