tomewiththateasewhichcommunicatesease,and,asIlistened,arevelationdawnedinmymindthatIwasonthebrinkoffallinginlove.Thedinner-bellrang,bothatherhouseandM.Pelet’swewereobligedtopartIdetainedheramomentasshewasmovingaway.
“Iwantsomething,”saidI.
“What?”askedZoraidenaively.
“Onlyaflower.”
“Gatheritthen—ortwo,ortwenty,ifyoulike.”
“No—onewilldo--butyoumustgatherit,andgiveittome.”
“Whatacaprice!”sheexclaimed,butsheraisedherselfonhertip-toes,and,pluckingabeautifulbranchoflilac,offeredittomewithgrace.Itookit,andwentaway,satisfiedforthepresent,andhopefulforthefuture.
CertainlythatMaydaywasalovelyone,anditclosedinmoonlightnightofsummerwarmthandserenity.Irememberthiswellfor,havingsatuplatethatevening,correctingdevoirs,andfeelingwearyandalittleoppressedwiththeclosenessofmysmallroom,Iopenedtheoften-mentionedboardedwindow,whoseboards,however,IhadpersuadedoldMadamePelettohaveremovedsinceIhadfilledthepostofprofessorinthepensionnatdedemoiselles,as,fromthattime,itwasnolonger“inconvenient”formetooverlookmyownpupilsattheirsports.Isatdowninthewindow-seat,restedmyarmonthesill,andleanedout:abovemewastheclear-obscureofacloudlessnightsky—splendidmoonlightsubduedthetremuloussparkleofthestars—belowlaythegarden,variedwithsilverylustreanddeepshade,andallfreshwithdew—agratefulperfumeexhaledfromtheclosedblossomsofthefruit-trees—notaleafstirred,thenightwasbreezeless.MywindowlookeddirectlydownuponacertainwalkofMdlle.Reuter’sgarden,called“l’alleedefendue,”sonamedbecausethepupilswereforbiddentoenteritonaccountofitsproximitytotheboys’school.Itwasherethatthelilacsandlaburnumsgrewespeciallythickthiswasthemostshelterednookintheenclosure,itsshrubsscreenedthegarden-chairwherethatafternoonIhadsatwiththeyoungdirectress.IneednotsaythatmythoughtswerechieflywithherasIleanedfromthelattice,andletmyeyeroam,nowoverthewalksandbordersofthegarden,nowalongthemany-windowedfrontofthehousewhichrosewhitebeyondthemassesoffoliage.Iwonderedinwhatpartofthebuildingwassituatedherapartmentandasinglelight,shiningthroughthepersiennesofonecroisee,seemedtodirectmetoit.
“Shewatcheslate,”thoughtI,“foritmustbenownearmidnight.Sheisafascinatinglittlewoman,”Icontinuedinvoicelesssoliloquy“herimageformsapleasantpictureinmemoryIknowsheisnotwhattheworldcallspretty—nomatter,thereisharmonyinheraspect,andIlikeitherbrownhair,herblueeye,thefreshnessofhercheek,thewhitenessofherneck,allsuitmytaste.ThenIrespecthertalenttheideaofmarryingadollorafoolwasalwaysabhorrenttome:Iknowthataprettydoll,afairfool,mightdowellenoughforthehoneymoonbutwhenpassioncooled,h