"Ah, what terrible wranglers!" said Madame Kerouët, "one of you is no better than the other!" At other times, we took turns at reading aloud some of the works of Walter Scott, in which Madame Kerouët took great interest. Marie had a clear, sweet voice, and one of my greatest pleasures was to listen to her as she read. But it was a greater pleasure still to watch her. So, when the time came for me to read, if I found any allusion to my love, I would first read the phrases with my eyes, and then repeat them aloud from memory, fixing on Marie a passionate look. Sometimes Marie would lower her eyes, and put on a severe expression, but then, at others, she would blush, and with the end of her pretty forefinger make me an imperious sign to keep my eyes on my book. Another trick that I invented was this: I would improvise whole passages, and introduce them into the book I was reading, so that when the situation permitted me I could give Marie a more distinct insight as to my love for her. Thus, one evening, in that chaste and passionate scene where Ivanhoe declares his love for the beautiful Saxon, I substituted for the speech of the Crusader a long monologue, in which I made the most direct allusions to Marie and myself, by recalling a thousand souvenirs of our walks and talks. Marie seemed quite overcome,--troubled. She looked at me reprovingly. I stopped reading. "I don't wish to interrupt you, M. Arthur," said Madame Kerouët, "for I don't think I ever heard you read so well as you have to-day." Then putting down her distaff, she said, naïvely: "Ah, a woman would surely have a heart of stone not to have pity on a lover who talked like that. I know very little about it, but it seems to me that one could say no more than what Ivanhoe says,--it is all so true and natural." "Oh, it is really all very beautiful," said Marie, "but M. Arthur must be tired. I will read now in my turn." As she took, in spite of my resistance, the book from my hand, she looked for the improvised passage, and not finding it said, saucily: "The pages that you have just been reading are so beautiful that I want to read them over again." "Thou art right, Marie," said her aunt; "I, too, would like to hear them once more." "Ah, _mon Dieu_, ten o'clock, already!" said I, to change the subject. "I must be going." "So it is, already!" said Madame Kerouët, as she looked at the clock. Usually, when I started to go, Marie would go to the window to see what sort of weather it was. This evening she remained motionless. Her aunt said to her: "Why don't you look to see if it is snowing, my child?" Marie rose up and came back, saying, "It is snowing hard." "It snows hard. What a heartless way you say that! You don't seem to remember that M. Arthur has three leagues to ride in the pitch-dark, and right through the forest." I tried to meet Marie's eyes. She turned away her head; so I said to her, sadly, "_Bon soir_, madame."