He was losing his bashfulness, and now gazed all over the room, evidently much impressed by its blue velvet hangings.
“Rosalie is out,” Hélène began again, “but she will be here very soon. Her aunt tells me you are her sweetheart.”
To this the little soldier vouchsafed no reply, but hung his head, laughing awkwardly, and scraping the carpet with the tip of his boot.
“Then you will have to marry her when you leave the army?” Hélène continued questioning.
“Yes, to be sure!” exclaimed he, his face turning very red. “Yes, of course; we are engaged!” And, won over by the kindly manners of the lady, he made up his mind to speak out, his fingers still playing with his cap. “You know it’s an old story. When we were quite children, we used to go thieving together. We used to get switched; oh yes, that’s true! I must tell you that the Lacours and the Pichons lived in the same lane, and were next-door neighbors. And so Rosalie and myself were almost brought up together. Then her people died, and her aunt Marguerite took her in. But she, the minx, was already as strong as a demon.”
He paused, realizing that he was warming up, and asked hesitatingly:
“But perhaps she has told you all this?”
“Yes, yes; but go on all the same,” said Hélène, who was greatly amused.
“In short,” continued he, “she was awfully strong, though she was no bigger than a tomtit. It was a treat to see her at her work! How she did get through it! One day she gave a slap to a friend of mine—by Jove! such a slap! I had the mark of it on my arm for a week! Yes, that was the way it all came about. All the gossips declared we must marry one another. Besides, we weren’t ten years old before we had agreed on that! And, we have stuck to it, madame, we have stuck to it!”
He placed one hand upon his heart, with fingers wide apart. Hélène, however, had now become very grave. The idea of allowing a soldier in her kitchen somewhat worried her. His reverence, no doubt, had given his sanction, but she thought it rather venturesome. There is too much license in the country, where lovers indulge in all sorts of pleasantries. So she gave expression to her apprehensions. When Zephyrin at last gathered her meaning, his first inclination was to laugh, but his awe for Hélène restrained him.