ia sees pass before her, as she is seated beside
Maurice, who is whispering in her ear loving words and whose glances
cover her with caresses, as if in a dream, views of Paris that were not
familiar to her, high walls, arches of bridges, then the bare suburbs,
the smoking manufactories of Grenelle, the Bas Meudon, with its boats
and public-houses. At last, on the borders of the stream, the park with
its extensive verdure appeared.

They wandered there for a long time under the chestnut-trees, loaded
with their fruit in its green shells. The sun, filtering through the
foliage, dotted the walks with patches of light, and Maurice continued
to repeat to Maria that he loved her; that he had never loved any one
but her! that he had loved her from the very first time that he saw her
at Pere Gerard's, and that neither time nor absence had been able to
drive away the remembrance of her. And at this moment he imagined that
it was true. He did not think that he was telling a lie. As to poor
Maria, do not be too severe upon her! think of her youth, her poverty
and imprisonment--she was overwhelmed with happiness. She could think
of nothing to say, and, giving herself up into the young man's arms, she
had hardly the strength to turn upon him, from time to time, her eyes
tortured with love.

Is it necessary to tell how she succumbed? how they went to a restaurant
and dined? Emotion, the heavy heat of the afternoon, champagne, that
golden wine that she tasted for the first time, stunned the imprudent
child. Her charming head slips down upon the sofa-pillow, she is nearly
fainting.

"You are too warm," said Maurice. "This bright light makes you ill."

He draws the curtains; they are in the darkness, and he takes the young
girl in his arms, covering her hands, eyes, and lips with kisses.

Doubtless he swears to her that she shall be his wife. He asks only a
little time, a few weeks, in which to prepare his mother, the ambitious
Madame Roger, for his unexpected marriage. Maria never doubts him, but
overcome by her fault, she feels an intense shame, and buries her face
on her lover's shoulder. She thinks then, the guilty girl, of her past;
of her innocence and poverty, of her humble but honest home; her dead
father, her mother and sister---her two mothers, properly speaking---who
yet call her "little one" and always consider her as a child, an infant
in all its purity. She feels impressed with her sin, and wishes that she
might die t