"M. Rodolph," she at length exclaimed, with a bewildered look, "how can this be? Indeed, indeed, I feel afraid to look at it,—it is so exactly alike. I cannot believe it is anything but a dream you have conjured up, and which will quickly pass away. Speak to me! pray do; and tell me what to believe."
"Calm yourself, my dear child! Nothing is more simple or true than what you behold here. The good woman who owns this farm was my nurse, and brought me up here; intending to give myself a treat, I sent to her early this morning to say I was coming to see her. You see I painted after nature."
"You are quite right, M. Rodolph," sighed La Goualeuse. "There is, indeed, nothing but what is quite natural in all this."
The farm to which Rodolph had conducted Fleur-de-Marie was situated at the outer extremity of the village of Bouqueval,—a small, isolated, and unknown hamlet, entirely surrounded by its own lands, and about two leagues' distance from Ecouen; the vehicle, following the directions of Rodolph, rapidly descended the hill, and entered a long avenue bordered with apple and cherry trees, while the wheels rolled noiselessly over the short fine grass with which the unfrequented road was overgrown.
Fleur-de-Marie, whose utmost efforts were unavailing to shake off the painful sensations she experienced, remained so silent and mournful that Rodolph reproached himself with having, by his well-intentioned surprise, been the cause of it. In a few moments more, the carriage, passing by the large entrance to the farm, entered a thick avenue of elm-trees, and stopped before a little rustic porch, half hidden by the luxuriant branches of the vine which clustered round it.
"Now, Fleur-de-Marie, here we are. Are you pleased with what you see?"
"Indeed I am, M. Rodolph. But how shall I venture before the good person you mentioned as living here? Pray do not let her see me,—I cannot venture to approach her."
"And why, my child?"
"True, M. Rodolph; I forget she does not know me, and will not guess how unworthy I am." And poor Fleur-de-Marie tried to suppress the deep sigh that would accompany her words.
The arrival of Rodolph had, no doubt, been watched for; the driver had scarcely opened the carriage door when a prepossessing female, of middle age, dressed in the style of wealthy landholders about Paris, and whose countenance, though melancholy, was also gentle and benevolent in its expression, appeared in the porch, and with respectful eagerness advanced to meet Rodolph.