Now Father Jerome, on Sunday, had again preached from the text:
“Mysterious are the dispensations of Providence.” And little Marietta
thought, if Providence would only dispense that I might at length find
out who is the flower dispenser. Father Jerome was never wrong.
On a summer night, when it was far too warm to rest, Marietta awoke very
early, and could not resume her sleep. Therefore she sprang joyously
from her couch as the first streaks of dawn flashed against the window
of her little chamber, over the waves of the sea and the Lerinian Isles,
dressed herself, and went out to wash her forehead, breast, and arms in
the cool spring. She took her hat with her, intending to take a walk by
the sea-shore, as she knew of a retired place for bathing.
In order to reach this retired spot, it was necessary to pass over the
rocks behind the house, and thence down through the orange and palm
trees. On this occasion Marietta could not pass through them; for,
under the youngest and most slender of the palms lay a tall young man
in profound sleep--near him a nosegay of most splendid flowers. A white
paper lay thereon, from which probably a sigh was again breathing. How
could Marietta get by there?
She stood still, trembling with fright. She would go home again. Hardly
had she retreated a couple of steps, ere she looked again at the sleeper
and remained motionless. Yet the distance prevented her from recognizing
his face. Now the mystery was to be solved, or never. She tripped
lightly nearer to the palms; but he seemed to stir--then she ran again
toward the cottage. His movements were but the fearful imaginings of
Marietta. Now she returned again on her way toward the palms; but his
sleep might perhaps be only dissembled--swiftly she ran toward the
cottage--but who would flee for a mere probability? She trod more boldly
the path toward the palms.
With these fluctuations of her timid and joyous spirit, between fright
and curiosity, with these to-and-fro trippings between the house and
the palm-trees, she at length nearly approached the sleeper; at the same
time curiosity became more powerful than fear.
“What is he to me? My way leads me directly past him. Whether he sleeps
or wakes, I will go straight on.” So thought Manon’s daughter. But
she passed not by, but stood looking directly in the face of the
flower-giver, in order to be certain who it was. Besides, he slept as if
it were the first time in a month. And who was it? Now, who else should
it be but the archwicked Colin.
So it was _he_ who had annoyed the gentle maiden, and given her so much
trouble with Monsieur Hautmartin, because he bore a grudge against her;
he had been the one who had teased her with flowers, in order to torture
her curiosity. Wherefore? He hated Marietta. He behaved himself always
most shamefully toward the poor child. He avoided her when he could; and
when he could not, he grieved the good-natured little one. With all the
other maidens of Napoule he was more chatty, friendly, courteous, than
toward Marietta. Consider--he had never once asked her to dance, and yet
she danced bewitchingly.
Now there he lay, surprised, taken in the act. Revenge swelled in
Marietta’s bosom. What disgrace could she subject him to? She took the
nosegay, unloosened it, strewed his present over the sleeper in scorn.
But the paper, on which appeared again the sigh, “Dear Marietta!” she
retained, and thrust quickly into her bosom. She wished to preserve this
proof of his handwriting. Marietta was sly. Now she would go away. But
her revenge was not yet satisfied. She could not leave the place without
returning Colin’s ill-will.
She took the violet-colored silken ribbon from her hat, and threw it
lightly around the sleeper’s arm and around the tree, and with three
knots tied Colin fast. Now when he awoke, how astonished he would be!
How his curiosity would torment him to ascertain who had played him this
trick! He could not possibly know. So much the better; it served him
right. She seemed to regret her work when she had finished it. Her bosom
throbbed impetuously. Indeed, I believe that a little tear filled her
eye, as she compassionately gazed upon the guilty one. Slowly
she retreated to the orange grove by the rocks--she looked around
often--slowly ascended the rocks, looking down among the palm trees as
she ascended. Then she hastened to Mother Manon, who was calling her.