“Oh, then, it is all your fault,” said the baroness. “I feared as much.”
“All my fault, all,” said Rose; then putting her pretty palms together, and casting a look of abject supplication on Edouard, she murmured, “my temper!”
“Do not you put words into his mouth,” said the shrewd old lady. “Come, Monsieur Riviere, be a man, and tell me the truth. What has she said to you? What has she done?”
By this time the abject state of terror the high-spirited Rose was in, and her piteous glances, had so disarmed Edouard, that he had not the heart to expose her to her mother.
“Madame,” said he, stiffly, taking Rose’s hint, “my temper and mademoiselle’s could not accord.”
“Why, her temper is charming: it is joyous, equal, and gentle.”
“You misunderstand me, madame; I do not reproach Mademoiselle Rose. It is I who am to blame.”
“For what?” inquired the baroness dryly.
“For not being able to make her love me.”
“Oh! that is it! She did not love you?”