In proportion,however,as I and my love grew stronger,and mademoiselle's presence grew more necessary to my happiness--so that were she away but an hour I fell a-moping--she began to draw off from me,and absenting herself more and more on long walks in the woods,by-and-by reduced me to such a pitch,of misery as bid fair to complete what the fever had left undone,If this had happened in the world I think it likely that I should have suffered in silence.But here,under the greenwood,in common enjoyment of God's air and earth,we seemed more nearly equal.She was scarce better dressed,than a sutler's wife;while recollections of her wealth and station,though they assailed me nightly,lost much of their point in presence of her youth and of that fair and patient gentleness which forest life and the duties of a nurse had fostered.
So it happened that one day,when she had been absent longer than usual,I took my courage in my hand and went to meet her as far as the stream which ran through the bottom by the redthorn.
Here,at a place where there were three stepping-stones,I waited for her;first taking away the stepping-stones,that she might have to pause,and,being at a loss,might be glad to see me.
She came presently,tripping through an alley in the low wood,with her eyes on the ground,and her whole carriage full of a sweet pensiveness which it did me good to see.I turned my back on the stream before she saw me,and made a pretence of being taken up with something in another direction.Doubtless she espied me soon,and before she came very near;but she made no sign until she reached the brink,and found the stepping-stones were gone.
Then,whether she suspected me or not,she called out to me,not once,but several times.For,partly to tantalise her,as lovers will,and partly because it charmed me to hear her use my name,Iwould not turn at once.
When I did,and discovered her standing with one small foot dallying with the water,I cried out with well-affected concern;and in a great hurry ran towards her,paying no attention to her chiding or the pettish haughtiness with which she spoke to me.
'The stepping-stones are all on your side,'she said imperiously.
'Who has moved them?'
I looked about without answering,and at last pretended to find them;while she stood watching me,tapping the ground with one foot the while.Despite her impatience,the stone which was nearest to her I took care to bring last--that she might not cross without my assistance.But after all she stepped over so lightly and quickly that the hand she placed in mine seemed scarcely to rest there a second.Yet when she was over I managed to retain it;nor did she resist,though her cheek,which had been red before,turned crimson and her eyes fell,and bound to me by the link of her little hand,she stood beside me with her whole figure drooping.
'Mademoiselle,'I said gravely,summoning all my resolution to my aid,'do you know of what that stream with its stepping-stones reminds me?'
She shook her head but did not answer.
'Of the stream which has flowed between us from the day when Ifirst saw you at St.Jean,'said in a low voice.'It has flowed between us,and it still does--separating us.'
'What stream?'she murmured,with her eyes cast down,and her foot playing with the moss.'You speak in riddles,sir.'
'You understand this one only too well,mademoiselle,'Ianswered.'Are you not young and gay and beautiful,while I am old,or almost old,and dull and grave?You are rich and well-thought-of at Court,and I a soldier of fortune,not too successful.What did you think of me when you first saw me at St.Jean?What when I came to Rosny?That,mademoiselle,'Icontinued with fervour,'is the stream which flows between us and separates us;and I know of but one stepping-stone that can bridge it.'
She looked aside,toying with a piece of thorn-blossom she had picked.It was not redder than her cheeks.
