Madame Berthier had left Gabrielle in her yellow room, with strict directions to attend to the cat, and to take him a little stroll in the garden. The lady had descended to the courtyard with full intentions of visiting the church of Nôtre Dame, but the information given her by Adolphe had altered her intention. The walk to Bernay and back took longer than she had intended. Shortly after madame had left the house, Gabrielle, carrying the dyed cat in her arms, descended the stairs and entered the garden. Her confinement to the house had removed the dark stain of the sun from her skin, which was now of a wheaten hue, delicate, and lighting up with every emotion that sent a flush to her cheek. The anxiety and terror which had overcome her, had left their traces on her face; the old child-like simplicity and joyousness were gone, and their place was occupied by an expression of timidity scarcely less engaging. She wore one of her own peasant dresses, so becoming to a peasant girl, and a pure white Normandy cap. ‘Poor puss!’ she said, caressing the yellow cat as she entered the garden; ‘do you love your mistress? I am sure you do, for already I love her, though I have not known her half so long as you have. How can that dreadful man treat her with so much cruelty? If he only knew how good she was----’ ‘You surely do not allude to me when you use the expression “dreadful man.” No, I am convinced you could not have so named one who lives only to devote himself to you, and gratify your every whim.’ Berthier stood before her, having stepped from an arbour that had concealed him. Gabrielle recoiled in speechless terror. ‘Did I hear you say that you loved Madame Plomb?’ he asked, advancing towards her. She shrank away. ‘Did I hear you express affection for that leaden woman, with her blue complexion, her bird-like profile, her fierce black eyes, and her mad fancies?’ ‘Monsieur,’ answered the girl, trembling violently, ‘I do love her; she has been kind to me.’ ‘Then,’ said the fat man, throwing up one hand and laying the other on his breast, ‘I love her too.’ He looked at her from head to foot, feasting his eyes on her beauty and innocence. She attempted to look up, but before that bold glance her eyes fluttered to one side and then the other. ‘Do not run away, I will not touch you,’ he said, as she made a movement to escape; ‘I want merely to have a word with you in confidence. If you will not listen to me here, I will speak to you in the house. Whither can you go to escape me? The house is mine. No door is locked or bolted which I cannot open.’ ‘Monsieur, pray do not speak to me!’ exclaimed Gabrielle, joining her trembling hands as in prayer. ‘I must speak to you, little woman,’ said Berthier, ‘for I have got a charming suggestion, strictly correct, you may be sure, which I want to make to you.’ ‘Let me go home!’ she cried, covering her face with her hands.