He stopped in the shade of the high old wall and listened.
A smile shone in his blue eyes as the sweet, childish voice sounded clear and high in the still, scented air.
"What now, Jeannette, shall the mistress of Ancelles fall in love like an ordinary mortal, then?"
There was mischief in the pretty voice, but there was pride, too.
"But yes, mamzelle! Love comes to all—high and low—and spares no one its pangs."
"Pangs? Ah, bah! it shall have no pangs for me!"
"Ah, mamzelle! do not be rash."
"How will it take me, Jeannette? Tell me, that I may be prepared. Will it come like a fiery dart to my bosom, bringing a light to my eyes, and a colour of roses to my cheeks? Or will it take me sadly, rendering my cheek pale and my spirits low? Tell me, Jeannette."
"Not the last way, mamzelle"—the voice was slow now—"for you are too proud."
"You are right, Jeannette, I am too proud! 'Tis not I who must be pale and afraid. 'Tis the other. Love must come to me humble and suing—to be glad or sorry at my will. Is it not so, Jeannette?"