She exploded with laughter at this joke, an unbecoming one, and without much point.  Monsieur de Beaurenard is a friend of the Marquis, who happens to have a high color.  Out of politeness, I forced a smile, which she, no doubt, took for approbation, for she then launched out into conversation—­an indescribable flow of chatter, blending the most profane sentiments with the strangest religious ideas, the quiet of the country with the whirl of society, and all this with a freedom of gesture, a charm of expression, a subtlety of glance, and a species of earthly poesy, by which any other soul than mine would have been seduced.

“This is a pretty spot, this charming little nook, is it not?”

“Certainly, my dear cousin.”

“And these old willows with their large tops overhanging the stream; see how the field-flowers cluster gayly about their battered trunks!  How strange, too, that young foliage, so elegant, so silvery, those branches so slender and so supple!  So much elegance, freshness and youth shooting up from that old trunk which seems as if accursed!”

“God does not curse a vegetable, my cousin.”

“That is possible; but I can not help finding in willows something which is suggestive of humanity.  Perpetual old age resembles punishment.  That old reprobate of the bank there is expiating and suffering, that old Quasimodo of the fields.  What would you that I should do about it, my cousin, for that is the impression that it gives me?  What is there to tell me that the willow is not the final incarnation of an impenitent angler?” And she burst out laughing.

“Those are pagan ideas, and as such are so opposed to the dogmas of faith, that I am obliged, in order to explain their coming from your mouth, to suppose that you are trying to make a fool of me.”

“Not the least in the world; I am not making fun of you, my dear Robert.  You are not a baby, you know!  Come, go and get ready for a swim; I will go into my dressing-tent and do the same.”

She saluted me with her hand, as she lifted one of the sides of the tent, with unmistakable coquetry.  What a strange mystery is the heart of woman!

I sought out a spot shaded by the bushes, thinking over these things; but it was not long before I had got into my bathing costume.  I thought of you, my pious friend, as I was buttoning the neck and the wrists of this conventional garment.  How many times have you not helped me to execute this little task about which I was so awkward.  Briefly, I entered the water and was about to strike out when the sound of the marchioness’s voice assailed my ears.  She was talking with her maid inside the tent.  I stopped and listened; not out of guilty curiosity, I can assure you, but out of a sincere wish to become better acquainted with that soul.

“No, no, Julie,” the marchioness was saying.  “No, no; I won’t hear you say any more about that frightful waterproof cap.  The water gets inside and does not come out.  Twist up my hair in a net; nothing more is required.”