urges, into the Rue du Four, a blazing sun was
drying the rain on the roofs, and the cuckoo clock at M. Festuquet's--a
neighbor of my uncle--was striking the hour of meeting.

I had not been three minutes at the garden door, a key to which had been
given me by Madeleine, when M. Charnot appeared with Jeanne on his arm.

"To think that I've forgotten my overshoes, which I never fail to take
with me to the country!"

"The country, father?" said Jeanne, "why, Bourges is a city!--"

"To be sure--to be sure," answered M. Charnot, who feared he had hurt my
feelings.

He put on his spectacles and began to study the old houses around him.

"Yes, a city; really quite a city."

I do not remember what commonplace I stammered.

Little did I care for M. Charnot's overshoes or the honor of Bourges at
that moment! On the other side of the wall, a few feet off, I felt the
presence of M. Mouillard. I reflected that I should have to open the
door and launch the Academician, without preface, into the presence
of the lawyer, stake my life's happiness, perhaps, on my uncle's first
impressions, play at any rate the decisive move in the game which had
been so disastrously opened.

Jeanne, though she did her best to hide it, was extremely nervous. I
felt her hand tremble in mine as I took it.

"Trust in God!" she whispered, and aloud: "Open the door."

I turned the key in the lock. I had arranged that Madeleine should go at
once to M. Mouillard and tell him that there were some strangers waiting
in the garden. But either she was not on the lookout, or she did not at
once perceive us, and we had to wait a few minutes at the bottom of the
lawn before any one came.

I hid myself behind the trees whose leafage concealed the wall.

M. Charnot was evidently pleased with the view before him, and turned
from side to side, gently smacking his lips like an epicure. And, in
truth, my uncle's garden was perfection; the leaves, washed by the
rain, were glistening in the fulness of their verdure, great drops were
falling from the trees with a silvery tinkle, the petunias in the beds
were opening all their petals and wrapping us in their scent; the
birds, who had been mute while the shower lasted, were now fluttering,
twittering, and singing beneath the branches. I was like one bewitched,
and thought these very birds were discussing us. The greenfinch said:

"Old Mouillard, look! Here's Princess Goldenlocks at your garden gate."

The tomtit