“And when I tell you my secret,” continued he, “you will acknowledge I cannot be of a very jealous disposition. Madame Baptiste has just told me she knew you formerly, and that—she—that is, you—were—in fact, you understand—there had been—so to say—a little ‘amourette’ between you.”
I groaned in spirit as I thought, now am I lost without a chance of escape—the devil take her reminiscences.
“I see,” continued le bon mari, “you cannot guess of whom I speak; but when I tell you of Amelie Grandet, your memory will, perhaps, be better.”
“Amelie Grandet!” said I, with a stage start. I need not say that I had never heard the name before. “Amelie Grandet here!”
“Yes, that she is,” said the manager, rubbing his hands; “and my wife, too”—
“Married!—Amelie Grandet married! No, no; it is impossible—I cannot believe it. But were it true—true, mark me—for worlds would I not meet her.”
“Comment il est drole,” said the manager, soliloquising aloud; “for my wife takes it much easier, seeing they never met each other since they were fifteen.”
“Ho, ho!” thought I, “the affair is not so bad either—time makes great changes in that space.” “And does she still remember me?” said I, in a very Romeo-in-the-garden voice.
“Why, so far as remembering the little boy that used to play with her in the orchard at her mother’s cottage near Pirna, and with whom she used to go boating upon the Elbe, I believe the recollection is perfect. But come along—she insists upon seeing you, and is this very moment waiting supper in our room for you.”
“A thorough German she must be,” thought I, “with her sympathies and her supper—her reminiscences and her Rhine wine hunting in couples through her brain.”