He
wrote no more. He read, or seemed to read, nearly the whole day through;
but I often observed that his eyes ceased travelling along the lines, and
that sometimes, for an hour and more together, he never turned a page.
"My little Gretchen," he said to me one day, "you are too much in these
close rooms with me, and too little in the open air and sunshine."
"I had rather be here, Monsieur Maurice," I replied.
"But it is not good for you. You are losing all your roses."
"I don't think it is good for me to be out when you are always indoors," I
said, simply. "I don't care to run about, and--and I don't enjoy it."
He looked at me--opened his lips as if about to speak--then checked
himself; walked to the window; and looked out silently.
The next morning, as soon as I made my appearance, he said:--
"The French lesson can wait awhile, petite. Shall we go out for a walk
instead?"
I clapped my hands for joy.
"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" I cried, "are you in earnest?"
For in truth it seemed almost too good to be true. But Monsieur Maurice was
in earnest, and we went--closely followed by the sentry.
It was a beautiful, sunny April day. We went down the terraces and slopes;
and in and out of the flower-beds, now gaudy with Spring flowers; and on to
the great central point whence the three avenues diverged.
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