The peasant girl let her talk to the very end without interrupting her a single moment, merely darting at Hortense a look of irony from her wicked eyes as though to challenge her to make some reply. At last, seeing that the young girl did not wish to say anything more, she coldly declared that they would not go, because her brother had all kinds of engagements in Paris—all kinds which it was impossible for him to break. Upon that she threw over her arm the heavy wet cloak which had been lying on the back of a chair, made a hypocritical curtsy to Rosalie, “Wishing you a very good day, Madame, and thanking you very much, I am sure,” and left the room, followed by Hortense.
In the antechamber, lowering her voice on account of the servants:
“Sunday evening, qué? half past ten without fail!” And in a pressing, authoritative voice: “Come now, you certainly owe that to your pore friend! Just to give him a little heart ... and to start with, what do you risk, anyhow? I am coming to get you and I am going to bring you back!”
Seeing that Hortense still hesitated, she added almost aloud in a tone of menace: “Come now, I would like to know: are you his betrothed or not?”
“I’ll come, I’ll come,” said the young girl greatly alarmed.
When she returned to the room, seeing that she looked worried and sad, Rosalie asked her:
“What are you thinking about, my dear girl? are you still dreaming the continuation of your novel? It ought to be getting pretty well forward in all these months,” added she, taking her gayly around the waist.
“Oh, yes, pretty well forward—”
After a silence Hortense continued in an obscure tone of melancholy: “But the trouble is, I can’t see my way to the close of the novel.”