“You are lying,” Rosalie burst out violently.  “I know you are lying; your nose is twitching.  Oh, Zephyrin, you are going to the dogs—­you have left off going to church!  Beware!”

His answer, lover-like, was an attempt to put his arm round her waist, but to all appearance she was shocked, for she exclaimed: 

“I’ll make you put on your coat again if you don’t behave yourself.  Aren’t you ashamed?  Why, there’s mademoiselle looking at you!”

Thereupon Zephyrin turned to his raking once more.  In truth, Jeanne had raised her eyes towards them.  Her amusement was palling on her somewhat; the gravel thrown aside, she had been gathering leaves and plucking grass; but a feeling of indolence crept over her, and now she preferred to do nothing but gaze at the sunshine as it fell on her more and more.  A few moments previously only her legs, as far as the knees, had been bathed in this warm cascade of sunshine, but now it reached her waist, the heat increasing like an entrancing caress.  What particularly amused her were the round patches of light, of a beautiful golden yellow, which danced over her shawl, for all the world like living creatures.  She tossed back her head to see if they were perchance creeping towards her face, and meanwhile clasped her little hands together in the glare of the sunshine.  How thin and transparent her hands seemed!  The sun’s rays passed through them, but all the same they appeared to her very pretty, pinky like shells, delicate and attenuated like the tiny hands of an infant Christ.  Then too the fresh air, the gigantic trees around her, and the warmth, had lulled her somewhat into a trance.  Sleep, she imagined, had come upon her, and yet she could still see and hear.  It all seemed to her very nice and pleasant.

“Mademoiselle, please draw back a bit,” said Rosalie, who had approached her.  “The sun’s heat is too warm for you.”

But with a wave of her hand Jeanne declined to stir.  For the time her attention was riveted on the maid and the little soldier.  She pretended to direct her glances towards the ground, with the intention of making them believe that she did not see them; but in reality, despite her apparent drowsiness, she kept watching them from beneath her long eyelashes.

Rosalie stood near her for a minute or two longer, but was powerless against the charms of the grating rake.  Once more she slowly dragged herself towards Zephyrin, as if in spite of her will.  She resented the change in manner which he was now displaying, and yet her heart was bursting with mute admiration.  The little soldier had used to good purpose his long strolls with his comrades in the Jardin des Plantes and round the Place du Chateau-d’Eau, where his barracks stood, and the result was the acquisition of the swaying, expansive graces of the Parisian fire-eater.  He had learnt the flowery talk, gallant readiness, and involved style of language so dear to the hearts