Thérèse made no reply. He saw that this unseasonable evocation of one of his undesirable acquaintances was not a very delicate contribution to the joys of a romantic midnight expedition with the queen of his heart. Why had it come into his head? how was it that the name of some foolish virgin or other had come to his lips? He was mortified by his blunder; but, instead of ingenuously blaming himself for it and wooing oblivion by torrents of loving words which he was quite capable of pouring forth when passion inspired his heart, he determined to brazen it out, and asked Thérèse if she would sing for him. "I could not do it," she replied, gently. "It is a long while since I have ridden, and it has made me a little oppressed." "If it is only a little, make an effort, Thérèse; it will give me so much pleasure!" Thérèse was too proud to be angry, she was only grieved. She turned her face away, and pretended to cough. "Well, well," said he, laughingly, "you are only a poor weak woman! And then you don't believe in my echo, I can see that. I propose that you shall hear it. Stay here. I will climb up to the top of the hill. You are not afraid to remain alone for five minutes, I trust?" "No," replied Thérèse, "I am not at all afraid." To climb to the other height, he had to go down into the little ravine which separated it from that on which they were; but the ravine was deeper than it seemed. When Laurent, having gone down half-way, saw how far he still had to go, he stopped, reluctant to leave Thérèse alone so long, and called to her, asking if she had called him. "No, indeed I did not!" she shouted, not wishing to thwart his caprice. It is impossible to describe what took place in Laurent's brain; he took that _indeed I did not_ for a rebuke, and continued to descend, but less quickly, and musing as he walked. "I have wounded her," he said, "and now she is sulky, as in the days when we played at being brother and sister. Is she going to continue to have these moody fits, now that she is my mistress? But why did I wound her? I was wrong, certainly, but it was unintentional. It is impossible that some scrap of my past should not come to my mind now and then. Is it to be an insult to her and a mortification to me every time? What does my past matter to her, since she has accepted me as I am? And yet I was wrong! yes, I was wrong; but will she never happen to mention the wretch whom she loved and thought she had married? In spite of herself, Thérèse when she is with me will remember the days she lived without me, and shall I twist it into a crime?" He instantly answered his own question: "Oh! yes, it would be intolerable! So I have done very wrong, and I ought to have asked her pardon at once." But he had already reached that stage of mental fatigue when the mind is sated with enthusiasm, and when the weak and shrinking creature that every one of us is, to a greater or less extent, feels that he must resume possession of himself.