And Sulpice felt, at each step that he took, a more profound emotion.  Along this russet-tinted wood, stood out here and there the bright trunks of birch-trees, and far above it, the pale blue sky; the abyss of heaven, strewn with milky clouds and throughout the course of this pathway arose like a Cybelean incense, a healthful and fresh odor that filled the lungs and infused a desire to live.

To live! and, thought Sulpice, but a moment ago this lovely, slender girl spoke of dying.  He approached her gently, walking by her side, at first not speaking, then little by little returning to that thought and almost whispering in her ear—­that rosy ear that stood out against the paleness of her cheek: 

“Is it possible to think of anything besides the opening spring, in this wood where everything is awakening to life?  Is it really true, Marianne, that you really wished to die?”

He did not feel astonished at having dared to call her by name.  It seemed as if he had known her for years.  He forgot everything, as if the world was nothing but a dream and that this dream presented this woman’s face.

“Yes,” she replied.  “Upon my honor, I was weary of life, but I see that most frequently at the very moment when one despairs—­”

She stopped suddenly.

“Well?” he asked, as he waited for her to continue.

“Nothing.  No, nothing!”

She commenced to laugh, calling his attention to the end of the path, to a broader alley which brought them back to the edge of the lake, whose blue line they saw in the distance.

“Blue on blue,” she said, pointing to the sky and the water.  “You reproach me for not liking blue, Monsieur le Ministre, see!  I am taking an azure bath.  This horizon is superb, is it not?”

Vaudrey debated with himself if she were jesting.  Why should she give him that title which here and at such a moment, had such an out-of-place ring?

She glanced at him sidelong with a little droll expression, her pretty mouth yielding to a smile that enticed a kiss.

“We shall soon have returned to my carriage,” she said.  “Already!”

“That already pleases me,” said Sulpice.

“It is true.  This short promenade is nothing, but it suffices to make one forget many things.”

“Does it not?” exclaimed Vaudrey.

The shadow of his coupe was still projected between them along the ochre-colored road.

“Do you come to the Bois often?” asked the minister.

“No.  Why?”

“Because I shall frequently return here,” he said in a trembling voice.

“Really!—­Then, oh! why then, it would be love-making?” said Marianne, who pierced him with her warm, tender glances.

He wished to seize this woman’s hand and print a kiss thereon, or to press his lips upon her bare neck upon which the golden honey-colored ringlets danced in the bright sunlight.