ir souls ever swell with gladness because of thee, when they see a
maiden so lovely step into the circle of the dance. But far the most
blessed of all is he who shall prevail on thee with presents and lead
thee to his home!'"

I turned to Lampron, who had stopped a few steps in front of me, a little
to the right. He had got out his sketch-book, and was drawing hurriedly.
Presently he forgot all prudence, and came forth from the shelter of a
beech to get nearer to his model. In vain I made sign upon sign, and
tried to remind him that we were not thereto paint or sketch. It was
useless; the artist within him had broken loose. Sitting down at the
required distance on a gnarled root, right in the open, he went on with
his work with no thought but for his art.

The inevitable happened. Growing impatient over some difficulty in his
sketch, Lampron shuffled his feet; a twig broke, some leaves
rustled-Jeanne turned round and saw me looking at her, Lampron sketching
her.

What are the feelings of a young girl who in the middle of a forest
suddenly discovers that two pairs of eyes are busy with her? A little
fright at first; then--when the idea of robbers is dismissed, and a
second glance has shown her that it is her beauty, not her life, they
want--a touch of satisfied vanity at the compliment, not unmixed with
confusion.

This is exactly what we thought we saw. At first she slightly drew back,
with brows knitted, on the verge of an exclamation; then her brows
unbent, and the pleasure of finding herself admired, confusion at being
taken unawares, the desire of appearing at ease, all appeared at once on
her rosy cheeks and in her faintly troubled smile.

I bowed. Sylvestre pulled off his cap.

M. Charnot never stirred.

"Another squirrel?" he said.

"Two this time, I think, father," she answered, in a low voice.

He went on reading.

"'My guest,' made answer the fair Nausicaa, 'for I call thee so since
thou seemest not base nor foolish, it is Zeus himself that giveth weal to
men--'"

Jeanne was no longer listening. She was thinking. Of what? Of several
things, perhaps, but certainly of how to beat a retreat. I guessed it by
the movement of her sunshade, which was nervously tracing figures in the
turf. I signalled to Lampron. We retired backward. Yet it was in vain;
the charm was broken, the peace had been disturbed.

She gave two coughs--musical little coughs, produced at will.

M. Charnot broke off his reading.