A minute previously he had bowed to Helene without speaking.  His glance for a moment fell on Jeanne, but feeling embarrassed he turned away his head.  Jeanne bore his look with a serious face, and unclasping her hands instinctively grasped her mother’s gown and drew closer to her side.

“Ah! the rascal,” said the doctor, as he raised Lucien and kissed him on each cheek.  “Why, he’s growing like magic.”

“Yes; and am I to be forgotten?” asked Juliette, as she held up her head.  Then, without putting Lucien down, holding him, indeed, on one arm, the doctor leaned over to kiss his wife.  Their three faces were lit up with smiles.

Helene grew pale, and declared she must now go up.  Jeanne, however, was unwilling; she wished to see what might happen, and her glances lingered for a while on the Deberles and then travelled back to her mother.  When Juliette had bent her face upwards to receive her husband’s kiss, a bright gleam had come into the child’s eyes.

“He’s too heavy,” resumed the doctor as he set Lucien down again.  “Well, was the season a good one?  I saw Malignon yesterday, and he was telling me about his stay there.  So you let him leave before you, eh?”

“Oh! he’s quite a nuisance!” exclaimed Juliette, over whose face a serious, embarrassed expression had now crept.  “He tormented us to death the whole time.”

“Your father was hoping for Pauline’s sake—­He hasn’t declared his intentions then?”

“What!  Malignon!” said she, as though astonished and offended.  And then with a gesture of annoyance she added, “Oh! leave him alone; he’s cracked!  How happy I am to be home again!”

Without any apparent transition, she thereupon broke into an amazing outburst of tenderness, characteristic of her bird-like nature.  She threw herself on her husband’s breast and raised her face towards him.  To all seeming they had forgotten that they were not alone.

Jeanne’s eyes, however, never quitted them.  Her lips were livid and trembled with anger; her face was that of a jealous and revengeful woman.  The pain she suffered was so great that she was forced to turn away her head, and in doing so she caught sight of Rosalie and Zephyrin at the bottom of the garden, still gathering parsley.  Doubtless with the intent of being in no one’s way, they had crept in among the thickest of the bushes, where both were squatting on the ground.  Zephyrin, with a sly movement, had caught hold of one of Rosalie’s feet, while she, without uttering a syllable, was heartily slapping him.  Between two branches Jeanne could see the little soldier’s face, chubby and round as a moon and deeply flushed, while his mouth gaped with an amorous grin.  Meantime the sun’s rays were beating down vertically, and the trees were peacefully sleeping, not a leaf stirring among them all.  From beneath the elms came the heavy odor of soil untouched by the spade.  And elsewhere floated the perfume of the last tea-roses, which were casting their petals one by one on the garden steps.  Then Jeanne, with swelling heart, turned her gaze on her mother, and seeing her motionless and dumb in presence of the Deberles, gave her a look of intense anguish—­a child’s look of infinite meaning, such as you dare not question.