ONE evening, a few weeks later, Jeanne was taking a stroll on the ramparts of the town, a favourite and customary walk of hers when business cares were over. The pleasant expanse of country that lay spread beneath her—the rich sunset, the gleaming, river, and the noble old château that dominated both town and pasture from its adjacent height—all served to stir and bring out in her those impulses which had lain during the working day; while the cool evening breeze smoothed out and any little jars or worries which might have ensued during the practice of a profession in which she was still something of a . This evening she felt fairly happy and content. True, business was rather brisk, and her days had been occupied; but this mattered little so long as her modest efforts were appreciated, and she was now really beginning to feel that, with practice, her work was creditably and done. In a satisfied, somewhat dreamy mood, she was drinking in the various sweet influences of the evening, when she perceived her cousin approaching.
“Good-evening, Enguerrand,” cried Jeanne pleasantly; she was thinking that since she had begun to work for her living she had hardly seen him—and they used to be such good friends. Could anything have occurred to offend him?
Enguerrand drew near somewhat , but could not help allowing his expression to relax at sight of her fair young face, set in its framework of rich brown hair, wherein the sunset seemed to have itself and to cling, reluctant to leave it.
“Sit down, Enguerrand,” continued Jeanne, “and tell me what you’ve been doing this long time. Been very busy, and winning fame and gold?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Enguerrand, once more. “The fact is, there’s so much interest required nowadays at the courts that unassisted talent never gets a chance. And you, Jeanne?”
“Oh, I don’t complain,” answered Jeanne lightly. “Of course, it’s fair-time just now, you know, and we’re always busy then. But work will be soon, and then I’ll get a day off, and we’ll have a and picnic in the woods, as we used to do when we were children. What fun we had in those old days, Enguerrand! Do you remember when we were quite little tots, and used to play at executions in the back-garden, and you were a bandit and a buccaneer, and all sorts of dreadful things, and I used to chop off your head with a paper-knife? How pleased dear father used to be!”
“Jeanne,” said Enguerrand, with some , “you’ve touched upon the very subject that I came to speak to you about. Do you know, dear, I can’t help feeling—it may be , but still the feeling is there—that the profession you have adopted is not quite—is just a little——”
“Now, Enguerrand!” said Jeanne, an angry flash sparkling in her eyes. She was a little on this subject, the word she most to despise being also the one she most dreaded,—the adjective “unladylike.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Jeanne,” went on Enguerrand : “you may naturally think that, because I should have succeeded to the post, with its income and , had you your claim, there is therefore some personal feeling in my . Believe me, it is not so. My own interests do not weigh with me for a moment. It is on your account, Jeanne, and yours alone, that I ask you to consider whether the higher æsthetic qualities, which I know you possess, may not become and by ‘the trivial round, the common task,’ which you have lightly undertaken. How............