was one of those abodes of silence that open only in the hearts of old forests. Those who are brought there by chance and who grasp the fitness of things are themselves silent.
Mme. de la Vaudraye exclaimed:
"On the first fine Sunday, we must make up a party and come here. It is a lovely spot for a picnic. What do you say?"
They did not reply. She continued:
"Every one will bring his own provisions. Of course, Mme. Charmeron will make her famous spiced beef and Mlle. du Bocage her prune-tart. And, at dessert, everybody must come out with a set of verses!"
Guillaume hurled a pebble violently into the mirror of the water.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Mme. de la Vaudraye.
He sprang up and confronted her, angrily, impatiently, with tense wrists. But, as he was about to speak, he met Gilberte's eyes, sad and full of entreaty. He seemed quite dazed, his lips trembled and suddenly
