I had occupied during Irene's illness a vacant entresol, of which the windows opened on an uninhabited piece of ground, thus my return to Paris and my presence at Catherine's house was unknown to every one.
Madame de Fersen took to Fontainebleau only the same people who had been in attendance on her during her little girl's illness, the nurse and two maids. The rest of the household remained in Paris.
She asked me to follow her to the Grove in two days.
She took her departure.
The next morning I received from her most detailed instructions about finding my way to the small park gate at the Grove.
At the appointed hour I was at that gate; I knocked, and it was opened.
The sun was about setting, but it still threw some warm rays across the green lacework and violet clusters of an arbour of glycynia, under which Catherine was waiting for me with Irene, whose hand she was holding.
Was it intentional, or was it mere chance? I know not, but like the day when for the first time I saw her on board the Russian frigate, Catherine wore a gauzy white gown and a lace head-dress ornamented with a spray of red geranium.
The trials through which she had passed had made her fall away, but she was still beautiful, and even more lovely than beautiful. Her figure, as heretofore, was elegant and stately; her countenance noble, gracious, and pensive; her large, soft eyes of a perfect blue were fringed with long, dark lashes; the heavy tresses of her jet black hair framed her brow, lofty and sad, and her face paled by sorrow.
Irene, like her mother, was dressed in white; her long dark hair was tied with ribbons and fell to her waist, and her lovely face, though still pensive and sad, showed scarcely any traces of her recent sufferings.