“Oh, Mademoiselle, we are only waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me, child! What on earth do you mean? who told you I was going to be married at all?”
It was no wonder that Marie should be astonished at finding her wedding so confidently spoken of by a stranger in Echanbroignes, considering that it was not yet twenty-four hours since Henri had declared his love for her at Clisson.
“But you are going to be married to M. Henri, are you not, Mademoiselle?”
“Who told you all this? how is it you come to know so much about this young lady and M. Henri?” said Madame de Lescure.
“Why, Jacques Chapeau told me. My own husband, that is, as is to be.”
“Oh! that explains the mystery,” said Marie; “and so Chapeau is your lover is he? Chapeau is the man who couldn’t bear the mention of the fine pair of whiskers you saw in the picture? and did he tell you that his master was going to be married immediately?” and Marie blushed as she asked the question.
“Indeed he did, Mademoiselle, and he said besides—”
“Well, what did he say besides?”
“Why, I hardly like to say now, Mademoiselle; it will look like asking a favour when I thought you could not well refuse it; and perhaps Jacques was wrong to say anything at all about it.”