he Bravees was very low; it would have been
easy to scale it. The idea of scaling it would have appeared, to him,
terrible. But there was nothing to hinder his hearing, as any one else
might, the voices of persons talking as he passed, in the rooms or in
the garden. He did not listen, but he heard them. Once he could
distinguish the voices of the two servants, Grace and Douce, disputing.
It was a sound which belonged to the house, and their quarrel remained
in his ears like a remembrance of music.

On another occasion, he distinguished a voice which was different, and
which seemed to him to be the voice of Deruchette. He quickened his
pace, and was soon out of hearing.

The words uttered by that voice, however, remained fixed in his memory.
He repeated them at every instant. They were, "Will you please give me
the little broom?"

By degrees he became bolder. He had the daring to stay awhile. One day
it happened that Deruchette was singing at her piano, altogether
invisible from without, although her window was open. The air was that
of "Bonnie Dundee." He grew pale, but he screwed his courage to the
point of listening.

Springtide came. One day Gilliatt enjoyed a beatific vision. The heavens
were opened, and there, before his eyes, appeared Deruchette, watering
lettuces in her little garden.

Soon afterwards he look to doing more than merely listening there. He
watched her habits, observed her hours, and waited to catch a glimpse of
her.

In all this he was very careful not to be seen.

The year advanced; the time came when the trellises were heavy with
roses, and haunted by the butterflies. By little and little, he had come
to conceal himself for hours behind her wall, motionless and silent,
seen by no one, and holding his breath as Deruchette passed in and out
of her garden. Men grow accustomed to poison by degrees.

From his hiding-place he could often hear the sound of Deruchette
conversing with Mess Lethierry under a thick arch of leaves, in a spot
where there was a garden-seat. The words came distinctly to his ears.

What a change had come over him! He had even descended to watch and
listen. Alas! there is something of the character of a spy in every
human heart.

There was another garden-seat, visible to him, and nearer Deruchette
would sit there sometimes.

From the flowers that he had observed her gathering he had guessed her
taste in the matter of perfumes. The scent of the bindweed was her
favo