"Well?" he asked, as he waited for her to continue. "Nothing. No, nothing!" She commenced to laugh, calling his attention to the end of the path, to a broader alley which brought them back to the edge of the lake, whose blue line they saw in the distance. "Blue on blue," she said, pointing to the sky and the water. "You reproach me for not liking blue, Monsieur le Ministre, see! I am taking an azure bath. This horizon is superb, is it not?" Vaudrey debated with himself if she were jesting. Why should she give him that title which here and at such a moment, had such an out-of-place ring? She glanced at him sidelong with a little droll expression, her pretty mouth yielding to a smile that enticed a kiss. "We shall soon have returned to my carriage," she said. "Already!" "That _already_ pleases me," said Sulpice. "It is true. This short promenade is nothing, but it suffices to make one forget many things." "Does it not?" exclaimed Vaudrey. The shadow of his coupe was still projected between them along the ochre-colored road. "Do you come to the Bois often?" asked the minister. "No. Why?" "Because I shall frequently return here," he said in a trembling voice. "Really!--Then, oh! why then, it would be love-making?" said Marianne, who pierced him with her warm, tender glances. He wished to seize this woman's hand and print a kiss thereon, or to press his lips upon her bare neck upon which the golden honey-colored ringlets danced in the bright sunlight. "On these clear, fine days," she said in an odd tone, emphasizing every word, "it is very likely that I shall return frequently to visit this pathway. Eh! what is that?" she said, turning around. She was dragging a dry bramble that had fastened its thorns to the folds of her satin skirt and she stopped to shake it off. "Stop," said Sulpice. He desired to tread on the russet-colored bramble. "You will tear my gown," said Marianne. "The bramble clings too tightly." Then he stooped, gently removed the thorn, and Marianne, her bosom turned toward him and half-stooping, looked at that man--a minister--almost kneeling before her in this wood. He cast the bramble away from him. "There," he said. "Thanks." As he rose, he felt Marianne's fresh breath on his forehead. It fell on his face, as sweet as new-mown hay. He became very pale and looked at her with so penetrating an expression that she blushed slightly--from pleasure, perhaps,--and until they reached the carriage where her coachman was still sleeping, they said nothing further, fearing that they had both said too much. At the moment when she entered her carriage, Sulpice, suddenly, with an effort at boldness, said to her, as he leaned over the door: "I must see you again, Marianne." "What is the use?" she said, keeping her eyes fixed on his. "Where shall I see you?" he asked, without replying to her question. "I do not know--at my house--" "At your house?" "Wait," she added abruptly, "I will write to you."