“Would she not?” he repeated, smiling as he took the flower, with rather too rough a hand, Alaine thought. “Can you say with true spirit, ‘À bas les Huguenots’?” He spoke the words so fiercely that Alaine looked half alarmed, at which he laughed. “There, my cousin,” he continued, “you are too young to be troubled by these questions, and your father is too good a Catholic to let you stray from the fold.”
“But I do not wish to be done with questions. I wish to know about everything, and I mean to ask my father this very night when he returns from Paris. He will tell me, if you will not. I know he will. You are very provoking, Étienne, to treat my questions so,” she pouted. “Give me my flower; I want to wear it.”
“What if I want to wear it?”
“Ah, Étienne, are you, then, a Huguenot?”
“That is nothing to you,” he returned. “I am simply your cousin, Étienne Villeneau. Better trust me, Alainette; I know more than Michelle there; in fact, it is an amusement of mine to follow up all sources of information that will in any way benefit the house of Villeneau, and I will pass over to you anything in the matter of news which may be good for you.”
“Which may be good for me! As if news were like doses of medicine. I will take your news or not, as I like.”
“You will take it whether you like it or not,” he returned, looking at her for a moment with narrowed eyes. “If your father does not return from Paris you will be glad enough to run to me for knowledge of him.”
“Étienne, how can you? My father will return from Paris; he said he would, and he speaks truly at all times.”
“Too truly for once, it is reported. Au revoir, my cousin; when you are ready to hear what I have to tell send me word.” And he turned on his heel.
“You are hateful! a beast, a monster!” Alaine cried after him. “I hate you.”