"'The Language of Flowers,'" answered Pierrot resolutely. "That's right!" exclaimed Bertrade, delighted: "we can always reckon on something lively from Pierrot." M. de Jonzac, in spite of his inclination to laugh, put on a rigid expression. "I do not see anything amusing in it." "_You_ don't laugh, at any rate," said Pierrot, turning to Bijou and blushing furiously. "It is awfully good of you," he added. After dinner, he drew her out on to the stone steps, and said, in a beseeching tone: "Let me come out with you to take the green stuff to Patatras." "But I must go and pour out the coffee first." "Oh, just for once; Bertrade can pour it out right enough. Come, now, I don't want to go into the drawing-room; they'd begin asking me something else." Denyse started off with him, taking from a shed the basket in which was prepared for her every day the bunch of clover she always took to her horse. She then went on in the direction of the stable, followed by Pierrot. "You are awfully nice, Bijou, and so pretty, if you only knew it," he kept repeating, making his rough voice almost gentle. As they crossed the path which led to the stable, they saw M. de Rueille and Jean de Blaye advancing towards them, deep in conversation. "Look!" said Pierrot, "as you weren't in the drawing-room our two cousins made themselves scarce there." Denyse was going forward to meet them, but he stopped her abruptly. "No, please don't, they'd stick to us all the time, and I shouldn't have you to myself at all. It's such a piece of luck for me to be with you for a minute without Monsieur Giraud; he's always at my heels, especially when I'm anywhere near you." Bijou was looking attentively at the two men, who were coming towards her, but who were so deeply absorbed that they had not seen her, and between her somewhat heavy eyelids appeared that little gleam which gave at times a singular intensity of expression to her usually soft-looking eyes. "Very well," she answered, entering the stable, "let us take Patatras his clover without them." M. de Rueille was walking along with his eyes fixed on the gravel of the garden-path. He looked up on hearing the door open. Jean de Blaye pointed to the stable. "Look here," he said, "_that's_ the cause of all the trouble and worry that I can detect in every single word you say; and it's the cause, too, of the sort of petty spite that you have against me." "Indeed!" replied Rueille, putting on a joking air; "and what is _that_ pray?" "Why, Bijou, of course. Oh, you need not try to deny it. Do you think I have not followed up, hour by hour, all that has been passing in your mind?" "It must have been interesting." "Don't humbug; you are scarcely inclined for that sort of thing just now. I saw very well just when you began to admire Bijou, quite unconsciously, more than one does admire, as a rule, a little cousin one is fond of. It was the evening of the _Grand Prix_ at Uncle Alexis' when she sang--why don't you speak?"