“Pardon me. I ought never to sing when I am alone. These harmonious strains agitate me, and recall to my mind souvenirs that are too painful.” “_Mon Dieu_! What is the matter? Have confidence in me.” “No, no! Do not ask me.” Closing the piano, and summoning a smile to her face, she said— “Let us talk about you, not about me.” She looked at Marcel, and said, in tones of affectionate reproof— “How warm you are! You have been walking too fast, and the hill is so steep! It will be my turn to scold if you do not act sensibly. Now come out into the garden.” He quietly followed her. They walked along the small alleys of the tiny garden, then seated themselves under the shade of the blossoming lilacs, where they entered into a chat, talking of everything except of what they really thought. On the road, Baudoin had not lost sight of his master. When Marcel had entered the villa the servant had approached with considerable precaution. Madame Vignola’s singing had stopped as soon as Marcel appeared, so that Baudoin had heard nothing. He took good care not to pass in front of the door, but followed a footpath along the wall which continued in the direction of the wood, along a high copse crowned with large trees. On reaching the thicket he climbed the slope, and, concealed behind a bush, was able to catch a glimpse of the garden. The lilacs, under which Anetta and Marcel were chatting, grew at the foot of the mound which Baudoin had chosen as his observatory. There they were, seated with their backs towards him, about thirty yards away. Baudoin reflected. Who can this woman dressed in black be? She looks young, and of very good figure. Marcel loses no time once he sets out on a campaign. But perhaps all preliminaries have been facilitated for him? What is this young stranger doing here, and what interest is it of hers to place herself in immediate communication with M. Marcel? What are they speaking of, there, under my very eyes? Certainly it cannot be business. Then love must be the bait at the end of the line. The hook is well concealed, and will appear at the right moment. During this monologue the two friends continued their conversation. They sat there, near one another, but the sound of their words did not reach Baudoin. At the end of an hour they stood upright, and the young woman turned round so as to face Baudoin. _He_ examined her with astonishment and admiration, for seldom had he seen a more beautiful face. He was obliged to acknowledge that he had never seen her hitherto. After all, what resemblance had he expected? The “other” woman, the one of Vanves, he had seen only in the shadow of night, and so as to render it impossible to recognize her again. The only clues he possessed were that characteristic favourite perfume of hers, and the sound of her voice, which still vibrated in his ears.