ardrobe to the cradle, but at others'
houses, and with other men. Besides, a young girl who dances much has a
lot of nonsense talked to her. She may acquire a taste for Larive's
buffooneries, for a neat leg, or a sharp tongue. In that case what
welcome can she give to simple, timid affection? She will only laugh at
it. But you would not laugh, Jeanne, were I to tell you that I loved you.
No, I am quite convinced that you would not laugh. And if you loved me,
Jeanne, we should not go into society. That would just suit me. I should
protect you, yet not hide you. We should have felicity at home instead of
running after it to balls and crushes, where it is never to be found. You
could not help being aware of the fascination you exert; but you would
not squander it on a mob of dancers, and bring home only the last
remnants of your good spirits, with the last remnants of your train.
Jeanne, I am delighted to hear that you dance badly.

Whither away, Fabien, my friend, whither away? You are letting your
imagination run away with you again. A hint from it, and off you go.
Come, do use your reason a little. You have seen this young lady again,
that is true. You admired her; that was for the second time. But she,
whom you so calmly speak of as "Jeanne," as if she were something to you,
never even noticed you. You know nothing about her but what you suspect
from her maiden grace and a dozen words from her lips. You do not know
whether she is free, nor how she would welcome the notions you entertain
if you gave them utterance, yet here you are saying, "We should go here,"
"We should do this and that." Keep to the singular, my poor fellow. The
plural is far away, very far away, if not entirely beyond your reach.

CHAPTER VII

A WOODLAND SKETCH

April 27th.

The end of April. Students, pack and be off! The first warm breezes burst
the buds. Meudon is smiling; Clamart breaks into song; the air in the
valley of Chevreuse is heavy with violets; the willows shower their
catkins on the banks of the Yvette; and farther yet, over yonder beneath
the green domes of the forest of Fontainebleau, the deer prick their ears
at the sound of the first riding-parties. Off with you! Flowers line the
pathways, the moors are pink with bloom, the undergrowth teems with
darting wings. All the town troops out to see the country in its gala
dress. The very poorest have a favorite nook, a recollection of the
bygone year to be revived and renewed;