"Quite sufficient, thank you; but I did not mean to consume your time, my good Baptiste. I thought Mademoiselle Bertha would take pleasure in selecting the ivy herself."
"Mademoiselle Madeleine knows how glad I always am to serve her," answered Baptiste.
For another hour Madeleine sat alone, singing, in a soft murmur, as she sewed, while
"Her soul was singing at a work apart
Behind the walls of sense."
The sound of a manly step upon the pathway silenced her plaintive melody. The next moment the vines, that formed a verdant curtain about the otherwise unprotected casement, were gently drawn back, and a face appeared at the window.
"I thought I should find you here on this bright morning, Mademoiselle Madeleine. May I en—en—enter?" asked Gaston de Bois, speaking with so much ease that his only stammer came upon the last word.
"If you please."
"A noble slave of the needle," he continued, still looking in at the window. "The daughter of a duke, with the talents of a dressmaker! Where will ge—ge—genius next take up her abode?"
"Genius—since you are pleased to apply that sublime appellation to my poor capacities for wielding the most familiar and harmless weapon of my sex—is no respecter of persons, as you see. You are an early visitor to-day, M. de Bois. Of course, you are on your way to the château?"
"I have let—let—letters for the count. He intrusted me yes—es—esterday with a package to take with me to the Château de Tremazan, where I was engaged to pass the evening, and I have brought him the replies. But before I play the postman, let me come in and talk to you, since you are the only person I can ever manage to talk to at all."