Filled with gratitude, Marie wrote a charming letter of thanks to M. Duvallon, who answered her saying that he did not understand a word of Madame Belmont's gratitude.
Fearing discovery, I begged Madame Kerouët not to speak any more of these presents, making her believe that M. Belmont had good reasons for wishing for secrecy.
Marie's birthday was soon to be celebrated. On that anniversary she was to permit me to enter the mysterious little room she called her study, and which I had not been allowed to see before.
Knowing that the room was exactly like the one I inhabited in the opposite tower, such times as I slept all night at the farm, I had sent from Paris, still by the way of Nantes, all that was needed to furnish it with elegance. One of Marie's greatest regrets was that she had neither piano nor harp. I sent then for these two instruments, which were to arrive at the farm in time for Marie's birthday. All these details gave me infinite satisfaction.
Every day, well wrapped up, I started from Serval on my pony, braving the rain and the snow. I arrived at the farm, where I found a bright fire crackling in my room. I dressed myself with some care in spite of the everlasting teasing of the worthy fermière, who reproached me for being too coquet, then I went down into the grande chambre.
If the weather was not too bad, Marie took my arm and we sallied forth to affront the wind and cold, climb the mountainsides, where we gathered plants for Marie's herbarium, or tramp through the forest, where we would amuse ourselves by startling the doe with her faun, from her hiding-place in these solitary glades.
During these long walks, Marie, who was always lively, laughed and joked like a schoolgirl, and treated me like a brother. In her chaste innocence she often made me undergo severe trials. Sometimes it was her fur collar to fasten, sometimes to push up her long hair under her hat, or to fasten the lace of her shoe, which had become undone.
So, in those long tramps, as I would gaze on the lovely face of Marie, which under its curls, all powdered with sleet, looked like a rose covered with snow,—how many times an avowal came to my lips! How often was I on the point of declaring my love! But Marie, crossing both of her arms on mine, would lean on me with such confidence, would look at me with such candour and security, that each day I was fain to put off this declaration until the next.
I was fearful that, if I risked a premature word, I might destroy all this tranquil happiness.
I waited then patiently. I was not deceived as to the sentiments I had inspired in Marie's breast; without being foolishly conceited or ridiculously vain, I could not withstand the evidence of my own eyes. For the last two months and more I had seen her almost every day. My attentions to her, to one so young, so unsophisticated, so little accustomed to the ways of the world, had made a deep impression on her; but I had recognised in her such high principles, such decided religious sentiment, and such a deep sense of duty, that I felt I would have to undergo a long struggle, perhaps a painful one, although a thousand trifles showed me that Marie cared for me with a measure of affection of which she herself was most likely ignorant.