fullest extent. Yes, those eyes of tawny brown, shot with golden
lights, covered ardor which revealed itself in sudden flashes.
Rosalie, with a recklessness which Mariette noted, stood in the
lawyer's way, so as to exchange glances with him; and this glance
turned her blood, for it seethed and boiled as though its warmth were
doubled.

As soon as Albert had taken a seat, Mademoiselle de Watteville quickly
found a place whence she could see him perfectly during all the time
the Abbe might leave her. When Mariette said, "Here is Monsieur
Giroud," it seemed to Rosalie that the interview had lasted no more
than a few minutes. By the time she came out from the confessional,
Mass was over. Albert had left the church.

"The Vicar-General was right," thought she. "_He_ is unhappy. Why
should this eagle--for he has the eyes of an eagle--swoop down on
Besancon? Oh, I must know everything! But how?"

Under the smart of this new desire Rosalie set the stitches of her
worsted-work with exquisite precision, and hid her meditations under a
little innocent air, which shammed simplicity to deceive Madame de
Watteville.

From that Sunday, when Mademoiselle de Watteville had met that look,
or, if you please, received this baptism of fire--a fine expression of
Napoleon's which may be well applied to love--she eagerly promoted the
plan for the Belvedere.

"Mamma," said she one day when two columns were turned, "my father has
taken a singular idea into his head; he is turning columns for a