"Francois, mon cher, you must put off La Chaumiere. I can't play to-night."
"Put it off! But only think of the audience, ma mie—they will pull down the house."
"C'est possible," said she, carelessly. "If that give them any pleasure, I suppose they must be indulged; but I, too, must have a little of my own way. I shall not play."
The tone this was said in—the look—the easy gesture of command—no less than the afflicted helplessness of the luckless husband, showed me that Amelie, however docile as a sweetheart, had certainly her own way as wife.
While Le cher Francois then retired, to make his proposition to the audience, of substituting something for the Chaumiere—the "sudden illness of Madame Baptiste having prevented her appearance,"—we began to renew our old acquaintance, by a thousand inquiries from that long-past time, when we were sweethearts and lovers.
"You remember me then so well?" said I.
"As of yesterday. You are much taller, and your eyes darker; but still—there is something. You know, however, I have been expecting to see you these two days; and tell me frankly how do you find me looking?"
"More beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful than ever—all save in one thing, Amelie."
"And that is—"
"You are married."