Annette, who was not ripe for such thoughts, left them frequently to gather wild flowers beside the road. But Olivier, desiring to keep her near him, nervous at seeing her continually darting away, never removed his eyes from her. He was irritated that she should show more interest in the colors of the plants than in the words he spoke. He experienced an inexpressible dissatisfaction at not being able to charm her, to dominate her, as he had captivated her mother; and he felt a desire to hold out his hand and seize her, hold her, forbid her to go away. He felt that she was too alert, too young, too indifferent, too free--free as a bird, or like a little dog that will not come back, will not obey, which has independence in its veins, that sweet instinct of liberty which neither voice nor whip has yet vanquished. In order to attract her he talked of gayer things, and at times he questioned her, trying to awaken her feminine curiosity so that she would listen; but one would think that the capricious wind of heaven was blowing through Annette's head that day, as it blew across the undulating grain, carrying away and dispersing her attention into space, for she hardly uttered even the commonplace replies expected of her, between her short digressions, and made them with an absent air, then returned to her flowers. Finally he became exasperated, filled with a childish impatience, and as she ran up to beg her mother to carry her first bouquet so that she could gather another, he caught her by the elbow and pressed her arm, so that she could not escape again. She struggled, laughing, pulling with all her strength to get away from him; then, moved by masculine instinct, he tried gentler means, and, not being able to win her attention he tried to purchase it by tempting her coquetry. “Tell me,” said he, “what flower you prefer, and I will have a brooch made of it for you.” She hesitated, surprised. “What, a brooch?” “In stones of the same color; in rubies if it is the poppy; in sapphires if it is the cornflower, with a little leaf in emeralds.” Annette's face lighted up with that affectionate joy with which promises and presents animate a woman's countenance. “The cornflower,” said she, “it is so pretty.” “The cornflower it shall be. We will go to order it as soon as we return to Paris.” She no longer tried to leave him, attracted by the thought of the jewel she already tried to see, to imagine. “Does it take very long to make a thing like that?” she asked. He laughed, feeling that he had caught her. “I don't know; it depends upon the difficulties. We will make the jeweler do it quickly.” A dismal thought suddenly crossed her mind. “But I cannot wear it since I am in deep mourning!” He had passed his arm under that of the young girl, and pressed it against him. “Well, you will keep the brooch until you cease to wear mourning,” said he; “that will not prevent you from looking at it.”