About this time Madame Chanteau became quite astonished at Pauline's piety. She saw her go twice to confession. Then all at once she seemed to take a dislike to Abbé Horteur, and for three Sundays even refused to go to mass, only resuming her attendance at the church subsequently in order that she might not displease her aunt. She gave no explanation of her conduct; but she had probably been offended and displeased by something the Abbé had said to her, for he was not a man of refined speech. It was at this period that Madame Chanteau, with her keen maternal instinct, discovered Pauline's growing love for Lazare; but she said nothing about it to anyone, not even to her husband. The knowledge of it came upon her as a surprise, for until now affection and possible marriage between the young people had not entered into her plans or thoughts. Like Lazare, she had gone on regarding her ward as a mere schoolgirl. Now, she told herself, it was her duty to look sharply after them; but she did not do so, really feeling very little interest or anxiety about a love which her son did not appear to return. When the hot days of August came round, Lazare suggested one evening that they should have a bathe next day, on their way to the works. Madame Chanteau accompanied them on this occasion, in spite of the terrible heat. She sat down on the burning shingle, with Matthew by her side, sheltering herself beneath her sunshade, under which the dog tried to stretch his head. 'Hallo! where's she off to?' all at once cried Lazare, as he saw Pauline disappear behind a rock. 'She is going to get ready, of course!' said Madame Chanteau. 'Turn your head away. It isn't decorous; and she won't like it.' He seemed quite astonished, then looked at his mother, and turned his back to the rock. Finally, he also began to undress, without saying a word. 'Are you ready?' he shouted, at last. 'What a time you are!' Pauline ran lightly towards him, with a laugh which sounded a little forced. They had never bathed together since Lazare's return home. She wore a swimming-costume, made in a single piece and fastened about her waist by a belt. With her lissom figure she looked like a Florentine statue. Her arms and legs were bare, and her small feet, white as a child's, were shod with sandals. 'Well,' said Lazare, 'shall we go as far as the Picochets?' 'Yes, to the Picochets,' she answered. 'Don't go far!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'I shall feel so frightened if you do.'