“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. Here we rested on a bench under a lime-tree, not far from the huge stone basin where the fountain played every Sunday throughout the Summer, and the sleepy water-lilies rocked to and fro in the sunshine.