eon, from which probably a sigh was again breathing. How
could Marietta get by there?

She stood still, trembling with fright. She would go home again. Hardly
had she retreated a couple of steps, ere she looked again at the sleeper
and remained motionless. Yet the distance prevented her from recognizing
his face. Now the mystery was to be solved, or never. She tripped
lightly nearer to the palms; but he seemed to stir--then she ran again
toward the cottage. His movements were but the fearful imaginings of
Marietta. Now she returned again on her way toward the palms; but his
sleep might perhaps be only dissembled--swiftly she ran toward the
cottage--but who would flee for a mere probability? She trod more boldly
the path toward the palms.

With these fluctuations of her timid and joyous spirit, between fright
and curiosity, with these to-and-fro trippings between the house and
the palm-trees, she at length nearly approached the sleeper; at the same
time curiosity became more powerful than fear.

"What is he to me? My way leads me directly past him. Whether he sleeps
or wakes, I will go straight on." So thought Manon's daughter. But
she passed not by, but stood looking directly in the face of the
flower-giver, in order to be certain who it was. Besides, he slept as if
it were the first time in a month. And who was it? Now, who else should
it be but the archwicked Colin.

So it was _he_ who had annoyed the gentle maiden, and given her so much
trouble with Monsieur Hautmartin, because he bore a grudge against her;
he had been the one who had teased her with flowers, in order to torture
her curiosity. Wherefore? He hated Marietta. He behaved himself always
most shamefully toward the poor child. He avoided her when he could; and
when he could not, he grieved the good-natured little one. With all the
other maidens of Napoule he was more chatty, friendly, courteous, than
toward Marietta. Consider--he had never once asked her to dance, and yet
she danced bewitchingly.

Now there he lay, surprised, taken in the act. Revenge swelled in
Marietta's bosom. What disgrace could she subject him to? She took the
nosegay, unloosened it, strewed his present over the sleeper in scorn.
But the paper, on which appeared again the sigh, "Dear Marietta!" she
retained, and thrust quickly into her bosom. She wished to preserve this
proof of his handwriting. Marietta was sly. Now she would go away. But
her revenge was not yet satisfied. She co