e. Denis had
entered, before his departure homewards, to ask what tidings he was to
carry to Pongaudin from her. Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to know
if he could not yet see Genifrede, to offer her consolation; and had
withdrawn, when he found that Genifrede was not yet awake. Madame
Dessalines' maid had put her head in so often as to give her mistress
the idea that she was afraid to remain anywhere else; though it did not
quite suit her to be where she must speak as little as possible, and
that little only in whispers. So Therese had been, for the most part,
alone since sunset. Her work was on the table, and she occasionally
took up her needle for a few minutes; but it was laid down at the
slightest noise without; and again and again she rose, either to listen
at the chamber-door which opened into the apartment, or softly to pace
the floor, or to step out upon the balcony, to refresh herself with
looking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.

In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whose
waters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir,
from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green and
fresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year. Pour straight
walks met at this fountain--walks hedged in with fences of citron,
geraniums, and lilac jessamine. These walks were now deserted. Every
one in the house and in the town was occupied with something far
different from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation. The
chequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of any
intruder. The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell;
and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmur
and the splash. Here Therese permitted herself the indulgence of the
tears which she had made an effort to conceal within.

"These young creatures!" thought she. "What a lot! They are to be
parted--wrenched asunder by death--by the same cause, for indulgence of
the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same
priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile
the ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at my
heart, and its last struggle--my bosom is quivering with it still. For
this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had--alas! not
forgetfulness of my child--but a home, and the good fame that a woman
cannot live wi