Swinging was Jeanne’s greatest delight. She would say that she believed herself a bird; the breeze blowing in her face, the lively rush through the air, the continued swaying to and fro in a motion as rythmic as the beating of a bird’s wings, thrilled her with an exquisite pleasure; in her ascent towards cloudland she imagined herself on her way to heaven. But it always ended in some mishap. On one occasion she had been found clinging to the ropes of the swing in a swoon, her large eyes wide open, fixed in a vacant stare; at another time she had fallen to the ground, stiff, like a swallow struck by a shot. “Oh, mamma!” she implored again. “Only a little, a very, very little!” In the end her mother, in order to win peace, placed her on the seat. The child’s face lit up with an angelic smile, and her bare wrists quivered with joyous expectancy. Hélène swayed her very gently. “Higher, mamma, higher!” she murmured. But Hélène paid no heed to her prayer, and retained firm hold of the rope. She herself was glowing all over, her cheeks flushed, and she thrilled with excitement at every push she gave to the swing. Her wonted sedateness vanished as she thus became her daughter’s playmate. “That will do,” she declared after a time, taking Jeanne in her arms. “Oh, mamma, you must swing now!” the child whispered, as she clung to her neck. She took a keen delight in seeing her mother flying through the air; as she said, her pleasure was still more intense in gazing at her than in having a swing herself. Hélène, however, asked her laughingly who would push her; when she went in for swinging, it was a serious matter; why, she went higher than the treetops! While she was speaking it happened that Monsieur Rambaud made his appearance under the guidance of the doorkeeper. He had met Madame Deberle in Hélène’s rooms, and thought he would not be deemed presuming in presenting himself here when unable to find her. Madame Deberle proved very gracious, pleased as she was with the good-natured air of the worthy man; however, she soon returned to a lively discussion with Malignon. “_Bon ami_[*] will push you, mamma! _Bon ami_ will push you!” Jeanne called out, as she danced round her mother. [*] Literally “good friend;” but there is no proper equivalent for the expression in English. “Be quiet! We are not at home!” said her mother with mock gravity. “Bless me! if it will please you, I am at your disposal,” exclaimed Monsieur Rambaud. “When people are in the country—” Hélène let herself be persuaded. When a girl she had been accustomed to swing for hours, and the memory of those vanished pleasures created a secret craving to taste them once more. Moreover, Pauline, who had sat down with Lucien at the edge of the lawn, intervened with the boldness of a girl freed from the trammels of childhood. “Of course he will push you, and he will swing me after you. Won’t you, sir?”