"I am stifling," she said, "I am restless, nervous, agitated, the weather is so stormy." She then asked me to give her my arm, as she was going to walk in the park. Contrary to her custom, she requested Madame Paul, Irene's nurse, to follow us with the little girl. We followed the winding avenue of the woods, and soon came upon the arbour, covered with _glycynia_, where she had waited for me with Irene the first day of my arrival at the Grove. I know not whether it was emotion, or fatigue, or indisposition, but Catherine complained of feeling tired, and seated herself on a bench. The sun had just set; the sky was covered with clouds, gilded by the last rays of the sun. Almost continuously the entire hemisphere was illumined with vivid flashes of summer lightning, which Irene watched with a curious and tranquil air. Catherine did not speak, and seemed deeply absorbed. Twilight had begun to darken the woods, when Irene, who was resting on her nurse's lap, fell asleep. "Madame," said Madame Paul, "Mlle. Irene is falling asleep, and the doctor was very particular that she should not be exposed to the damp evening air." "Let us go home," said Catherine, as she rose. She felt so weak that she leaned on my arm with her whole weight. We walked a few steps, but very slowly; Madame Paul was in front with Irene. Suddenly I felt Catherine giving way, and she said, in a broken voice, "I cannot take another step, I am prostrated." "Just make an effort," I said to her, "to reach the chalet, which is close at hand, and you can rest on the bench at the door." "But, Irene!" she exclaimed, anxiously. A turn in the road hid the nurse, who was already some way in advance. I supported Catherine, and a few seconds later she was seated at the entrance of the chalet. The threatening clouds had dispersed; at our feet we saw the lake reflecting the stars as they made their appearance; the perfume of flowers, rendered more acute by the warm and sultry weather, permeated the atmosphere; there was not a breath of air, not a sound. The night was so soft, so balmy and clear, that in the uncertain light I could perfectly distinguish Catherine's features. My whole being seemed concentrated in my heart, which was beating violently. Like Catherine, I felt overpowered, unnerved, by the warm, perfumed air which surrounded us. Madame de Fersen was seated, resting on cushions, her head leaning on her hands. The calm was so intense that I could hear Catherine's panting breath. I fell into a deep reverie, at once sad and blissful. Never, perhaps, would I have a more favourable opportunity to unbosom myself to Catherine; but my scruples, and the dread of seeming to ask reward for a service rendered, kept me silent. Suddenly she exclaimed: "I implore you, do not leave me to my thoughts; let me hear your voice. Tell me all you wish, but speak to me; in the name of Heaven, speak to me!" "What shall I say?" I replied, submissively.