s in the kitchen. But
in front of the house the neglected garden was planted with magnificent
apricot trees, and overgrown with large rose-bushes in full bloom; while
at the back there was a potato field reaching as far as the oak wood,
and surrounded by a quick-set hedge.

'I'd leave the potatoes as they are,' said old Porrette.

Claude and Christine looked at each other with one of those sudden
cravings for solitude and forgetfulness common to lovers. Ah! how sweet
it would be to love one another there in the depths of that nook, so
far away from everybody else! But they smiled. Was such a thing to be
thought of? They had barely time to catch the train that was to take
them back to Paris. And the old peasant, who was Madame Faucheur's
father, accompanied them along the river bank, and as they were stepping
into the ferry-boat, shouted to them, after quite an inward struggle:

'You know, I'll make it two hundred and fifty francs--send me some
people.'

On reaching Paris, Claude accompanied Christine to Madame Vanzade's
door. They had grown very sad. They exchanged a long handshake, silent
and despairing, not daring to kiss each other there.

A life of torment then began. In the course of a fortnight she was only
able to call on three occasions; and she arrived panting, having but a
few minutes at her disposal, for it so happened that the old lady had
just then become very exacting. Claude questioned her, feeling uneasy
at seeing her look so pale and out of sorts, with her eyes bright with
fever. Never had that pious house, that vault, without air or light,
where she died of boredom, caused her so much suffering. Her fits of
giddiness had come upon her again; the want of exercise made the blood
throb in her temples. She owned to him that she had fainted one evening
in her room, as if she had been suddenly strangled by a leaden hand.
Still she did not say a word against her employer; on the contrary, she
softened on speaking of her: the poor creature, so old and so infirm,
and so kind-hearted, who called her daughter! She felt as if she were
committing a wicked act each time that she forsook her to hurry to her
lover's.

Two more weeks went by, and the falsehoods with which Christine had to
buy, as it were, each hour of liberty became intolerable to her. She
loved, she would have liked to proclaim it aloud, and her feelings
revolted at having to hide her love like a crime, at having to lie
basely, like a servant a