Often in the evening she accepted his arm, and, while the marchioness remained at the window, seated in her arm-chair, they walked around the lawn, treading lightly upon the paths spread with gravel sifted so fine that the trailing of her light dress effaced the traces of their footsteps.

She chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved brother, while he was obliged to do violence to his feelings, to refrain from imprinting a kiss upon the little blonde head, from which the light breeze lifted the curls and scattered them like fleecy clouds.

At such moments, he seemed to tread an enchanted path strewn with flowers, at the end of which appeared happiness.
When he attempted to speak of his hopes to the marchioness, she would say: "You know what we agreed upon.

Not a word.

Already does the voice of conscience reproach me for lending my countenance to such an abomination.