Every one knows that pretty romance, the “Devin de Village.”
But it had never seemed so charming to me as when issuing from the lips of my pretty songstress.
Mademoiselle Gerbaut had sang very simply, but with that coquetry so natural to women. Her face was variable; and as she sang without accompaniment, leaning slightly back in her chair, her half-closed eyes gave a somewhat sentimental expression to the rest of her face. Her mouth was beautifully formed, she spoke almost without any perceptible movement of the lips, and you saw, at the first glance, that what she said was neither artificial nor constrained.
I was delighted with her. I said nothing, but my looks spoke more than words could have done.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, not being able, in my enthusiasm, to think of anything else, “have you read ‘Emile?’”
“No, monsieur,” she replied; “but my mother has read it, and that is why I am named Sophie.”
“You are named Sophie!” cried I, seizing her hand, and pressing it to my heart; “now I am completely happy!”
She looked at me with an astonished smile.
“And why are you so happy because my name is Sophie?” said she.