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CHAPTER VII.

Old M. Pigeonneau had more than once proposed to me to take a walk, but I had hitherto been unable to respond to so alluring an invitation. It befell, however, one afternoon, that I perceived him going forth upon a desultory stroll, with a certain lonesomeness of demeanour that attracted my sympathy. I hastily overtook him, and passed my hand into his venerable arm, a proceeding which produced in the good old man so jovial a sense of comradeship that he ardently proposed we should bend our steps to the English Garden; no locality less festive was worthy of the occasion. To the English Garden, accordingly, we went; it lay beyond the bridge, beside the lake. It was very pretty and very animated; there was a band playing in the middle, and a considerable number of persons sitting under the small trees, on benches and little chairs, or strolling beside the blue water. We joined the strollers, we observed our companions, and conversed on obvious topics. Some of these last, of course, were the pretty women who embellished the scene, and who, in the light of M. Pigeonneau’s comprehensive criticism, appeared surprisingly numerous. He seemed bent upon our making up our minds as to which was the prettiest, and as this was an innocent game I consented to play at it.

Suddenly M. Pigeonneau stopped, pressing my arm with the liveliest emotion. “La voila, la voila, the prettiest!” he quickly murmured, “coming toward us, in a blue dress, with the other.” It was at the other I was looking, for the other, to my surprise, was our interesting fellow-pensioner, the daughter of a vigilant mother. M. Pigeonneau, meanwhile, had redoubled his exclamations; he had recognised Miss Sophy Ruck. “Oh, la belle rencontre, nos aimables convives; the prettiest girl in the world, in effect!”

We immediately greeted and joined the young ladies, who, like ourselves, were walking arm in arm and enjoying the scene.

“I was citing you with admiration to my friend even before I had recognised you,” said M. Pigeonneau to Miss Ruck.

“I don’t believe in French compliments,” remarked this young lady, presenting her back to the smiling old man.

“Are you and Miss Ruck walking alone?” I asked of her companion. “You had better accept of M. Pigeonneau’s gallant protection, and of mine.”

Aurora Church had taken her hand out of Miss Ruck’s arm; she looked at me, smiling, with her head a little inclined, while, upon her shoulder, she made her open parasol revolve. “Which is most improper–to walk alone or to walk with gentlemen? I wish to do what is most improper.”

“What mysterious logic governs your conduct?” I inquired.

“He thinks you can’t understand him when he talks like that,” said Miss Ruck. “But I do understand you, always!”

“So I have always ventured to hope, my dear Miss Ruck.”

“Well, if I didn’t, it wouldn’t be much loss,” rejoined this young lady.

“Allons, en marche!” cried M. Pigeonneau, smiling still, and undiscouraged by her inhumanity. “Let as make together the tour of the garden.” And he imposed his society upon Miss Ruck with a respectful, elderly grace which was evidently unable to see anything in her reluctance but modesty, and was sublimely conscious of a mission to place modesty at its ease. This ill-assorted couple walked in front, while Aurora Church and I strolled along together.

“I am sure this is more improper,” said my companion; “this is delightfully improper. I don’t say that as a compliment to you,” she added. “I would say it to any man, no matter how stupid.”

“Oh, I am very stupid,” I answered, “but this doesn’t seem to me wrong.”

“Not for you, no; only for me. There is nothing that a man can do that is wrong, is there? En morale, you know, I mean. Ah, yes, he can steal; but I think there is nothing else, is there?”