The linden and the plane tree cast their shadows on the lawn which extended beyond it in the moonlight, as far as the dark wood. Attracted by the tender charm of the night, and by this misty illumination that lighted up the trees and the bushes, Jeanne turned toward her parents and said: "Little father, we are going to take a short stroll on the grass in front of the house." The baron replied, without looking up: "Go, my children," and continued his game. They went out and began to walk slowly along the moonlit lawn as far as the little wood at the end. The hour grew late and they did not think of going in. The baroness grew tired, and wishing to retire, she said: "We must call the lovers in." The baron cast a glance across the spacious garden where the two forms were wandering slowly. "Let them alone," he said; "it is so delicious outside! Lison will wait for them, will you not, Lison?" The old maid raised her troubled eyes and replied in her timid voice: "Certainly, I will wait for them." Little father gave his hand to the baroness, weary himself from the heat of the day. "I am going to bed, too," he said, and went up with his wife. Then Aunt Lison rose in her turn, and leaving on the arm of the chair her canvas with the wool and the knitting needles, she went over and leaned on the window sill and gazed out at the night. The two lovers kept on walking back and forth between the house and the wood. They squeezed each other's fingers without speaking, as though they had left their bodies and formed part of this visible poetry that exhaled from the earth. All at once Jeanne perceived, framed in the window, the silhouette of the aunt, outlined by the light of the lamp behind her. "See," she said, "there is Aunt Lison looking at us." The vicomte raised his head, and said in an indifferent tone without thinking: "Yes, Aunt Lison is looking at us." And they continued to dream, to walk slowly, and to love each other. But the dew was falling fast, and the dampness made them shiver a little. "Let us go in now," said Jeanne. And they went into the house. When they entered the drawing-room, Aunt Lison had gone back to her work. Her head was bent over her work, and her fingers were trembling as if she were very tired. "It is time to go to bed, aunt," said Jeanne, approaching her. Her aunt turned her head, and her eyes were red as if she had been crying. The young people did not notice it; but suddenly M. de Lamare perceived that Jeanne's thin shoes were covered with dew. He was worried, and asked tenderly: "Are not your dear little feet cold?" All at once the old lady's hands shook so violently that she let fall her knitting, and hiding her face in her hands, she began to sob convulsively. The engaged couple looked at her in amazement, without moving. Suddenly Jeanne fell on her knees, and taking her aunt's hands away from her face, said in perplexity: "Why, what is the matter, Aunt Lison?"