“Well, yes!” said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence, rather than with loving abandonment. “Well, yes! for I must thank you at least.”
“And for what?”
“For the commission, is it not my whole future?”
“And mine.”
Montalais looked at him.
“It is frightful,” said she, “that one can never guess whether you are speaking seriously or not.”
“I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris,—you are going there,—we are going there.”
“And so it was for that motive only you have served me, selfish fellow!”
“What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.”
“Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be confessed, a very bad-hearted young man.”