"Pretty!" she echoed scornfully, "it's your Blaisette Simon that's as pretty as a wax doll. It isn't me, Monsieur, with my black looks!"
He laughed and put his arm round her. At his touch she trembled and a lovely colour rose in her pale face. Then, with slow, and as if involuntary, movement, her head nestled against his shoulder.
"That's right!" he said, "now you are a sensible girl. Let's be happy while we can. So you call Blaisette mine, do you! What a foolish Ellenor to be jealous of her. She's quite different from you, can't you see that she doesn't set a man's blood on fire like you do, witch?"
"That's all very well, Monsieur, but you told father to the veille that I would make a good servant and he thought perhaps you would wish to engage me for when you marry Blaisette, and I saw you with her on the jonquière!"
"Well, sorcière, is it that I must speak only to you? And what if I do marry Blaisette?"
With a quick look into his amused eyes, she lifted her head from his shoulder and withdrew from his careless embrace. But it was only for a moment. In abandonment of grief and devotion she flung herself against his breast.
"I don't care," she sobbed, "if you marry Blaisette! I don't care if, even, I come to be your servant, but, for the sake of God, love me the best."
He smiled triumphantly over her hidden face and lightly kissed her dark hair.
"Good, there you shew sense! But, tell me, you can't be really jealous if you're willing for me to marry Blaisette? Why, you might even let out about what goes on in this Haunted House, just to vex me. And how do I know you won't do it, even yet?"