“It was so,” she said, “but now”—she looked at Kendall gravely—“it is so no longer. No.... We love.”
“I said to you,” Madeleine addressed Kendall, “that French girls are not cold. Did I not?”
“But—” Kendall began to expostulate and to explain.
But Madeleine would have none of it. “You are ver’ sérieux, monsieur. Doubtless you are also un religieux!”
“Religieux? What is that?”
“She means in English a monk,” said Andree, her eyes twinkling. “To wear a brown robe—oui!—and also bare feet and sandals.”
“It must be.” Madeleine laughed delightedly. “For heem to look at a yo’ng girl ees a sin.... See!... See!... He makes to blush. Regard his ear!...”
Andree laughed quietly, meantime studying Kendall’s face with kindly, twinkling eye. She did not deride him, but one could see that she loved to tease him—this incomprehensible foreigner who was so drôle!
Kendall laughed, too, a bit ruefully, but while he laughed he was thinking, fumbling for Madeleine’s point of view. It was clear to him that the man who was not eager for love could be no man at all—but a monk. It was the only possible explanation. Love was for men and women; continence was for monks. Well, then? To love might be a sin for a monk, but even on this point she doubtless was lenient; for a man not to love was a sin. He was not realizing his duty to achieve happiness. Love was love. It was good. It carried no burden of evil.
“The good God—He make the yo’ng man and the yo’ng girl, and He tell them to love.... It is true. Then one must obey the good God,” she said, seriously.