It was the month of August, that lovely season when it is so pleasant to live in the pure air of the country. Constance determined to pass at her country house near Montmorency all the time that her husband was absent. As it was much quieter there than in Paris, it seemed to her that she would be more free to think of him, to count the moments which must pass before his return. Monsieur de Montreville visited his daughter-in-law in the country. But at the count's age a man has settled habits, and amusement becomes a necessity. The count loved Paris, for he had a great number of acquaintances there; and the never-ceasing life and animation of the capital had always attracted him. After a week's stay in the country, he returned to his favorite city and his wonted amusements. Constance was left alone with Ménard and the servants. It was still early in the quarter, and Dubourg was not in the country; but Constance did not suffer one moment from ennui; when the heart is well occupied, the head is never empty. The old tutor was always ready to bear her company; he talked to her of Greek and Roman history, quoted his favorite Latin authors, and sometimes plunged into Biblical history. It is not certain that Constance was greatly entertained; but when Ménard had finished speaking, she would smile at him so amiably that he was invariably satisfied. Toward nightfall Constance always went to the summer-house. It was her favorite spot; there she and Frédéric had begun to understand each other, there she had felt the first approach of love. Since that time, she had often visited the summer-house, more often than ever now that she was awaiting her husband's return. From that eminence she could overlook the whole valley and the country round about the walls of her garden. One fine evening, as she happened to glance at the road which passed the house, Constance noticed a young woman seated at the foot of a tree, with an infant in her arms; the unfortunate creature was evidently in the last stages of destitution; she was gazing mournfully at her child, and, while covering him with kisses, seemed to be utterly hopeless and desperate. Constance was deeply affected. At that moment, Monsieur Ménard joined her on the platform. "Look!" she said; "do you see that poor woman? See how frantically she kisses her child! She seems in terrible distress. Do you see her?" "One moment, madame," said Ménard; "I can't find my spectacles.--Where in the devil have I put them?" At that instant the poor woman raised her eyes, and, when she saw Constance, her glance became so expressive, so full of entreaty, that it was impossible not to understand her. "Oh! she is crying," exclaimed Constance; "wait, wait, my poor woman! I will come down." She rushed out of the summer-house, while Ménard was still looking for his spectacles.