At these words, which reminded the poor Goualeuse that her newly tasted happiness was fast fleeting away, and that, at the close of this, the brightest day that had ever shone on her existence, she must return to all the horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Much surprised at her emotion, Rodolph kindly inquired its cause.
"What ails you, Fleur-de-Marie? What fresh grief have you found?"
"Nothing,—nothing indeed, M. Rodolph," replied the girl, drying her eyes and trying to smile. "Pray forgive me for being so sad, and please not to notice it. I assure you I have nothing at all to grieve about,—it is only a fancy; and now I am going to be quite gay, you will see."
"And you were as gay as could be a few minutes ago."
"Yes, I know I was; and it was my thinking how soon—" answered Fleur-de-Marie, naïvely, and raising her large, tearful blue eyes, with touching candour, to his face.
The look, the words, fully enlightened Rodolph as to the cause of her distress, and, wishing to dissipate it, he said, smilingly:
"I would lay a wager you are regretting your poor rose-tree, and are crying because you could not bring it out walking with you, as you used to do."
La Goualeuse fell into the good-natured scheme for regaining her cheerfulness, and by degrees the clouds of sadness cleared away from her fair young face; and once again she appeared absorbed in the pleasure of the moment, without allowing herself to recollect the future that would succeed it. The vehicle had by this time almost arrived at St. Denis, and the tall spires of the cathedral were visible.
"Oh, what a fine steeple!" exclaimed La Goualeuse.
"It is that of the splendid church of St. Denis: would you like to see it? We can easily stop our carriage."