Agnes, and you leave this suppressed mind, so fresh and clear-seeing,
as swift and as logical as that of a savage, at the mercy of an
accident. This inevitable crisis was brought on in Mademoiselle de
Watteville by the portrait which one of the most prudent Abbes of the
Chapter of Besancon imprudently allowed himself to sketch at a dinner
party.

Next morning, Mademoiselle de Watteville, while dressing, necessarily
looked out at Albert Savaron walking in the garden adjoining that of
the Hotel de Rupt.

"What would have become of me," thought she, "if he had lived anywhere
else? Here I can, at any rate, see him.--What is he thinking about?"

Having seen this extraordinary man, though at a distance, the only man
whose countenance stood forth in contrast with crowds of Besancon
faces she had hitherto met with, Rosalie at once jumped at the idea of
getting into his house, of ascertaining the reason of so much mystery,
of hearing that eloquent voice, of winning a glance from those fine
eyes. All this she set her heart on, but how could she achieve it?

All that day she drew her needle through her embroidery with the
obtuse concentration of a girl who, like Agnes, seems to be thinking
of nothing, but who is reflecting on things in general so deeply, that
her artifice is unfailing. As a result of this profound meditation,
Rosalie thought she would go to confession. Next morning, after Mass,
she had a brief interview with the Abbe Giroud at Saint-Pierre, and
managed so ingeniously that the hour of her confession was fixed for
Sunday morning at half-past seven, before the eight o'clock Mass. She
committed herself to a dozen fibs in order to find herself, just for