“Never, papa!” answered Margot.
Saturday, Margot drank a great deal of sugary liqueur. No one had any idea of such sugar. As she was no longer on her guard, she soon found herself sitting close to the cask. She laughed, happy, in paradise; she saw stars, and it seemed to her that there was music within her, playing dance tunes. Then it was that Delphin slipped into the shadow of the casks. He took her hand; he asked: “Say, Margot, will you?”
She kept on smiling. Then she replied: “It is papa who will not.”
“Oh! that’s nothing,” said the little one; “you know the old ones never will—provided you are willing, you.” And he grew bold, he planted a kiss on her neck. She bridled; shivers ran along her shoulders. “Stop! You tickle me.”
But she talked no more of giving him a slap. In the first place, she was not able to, for her hands were too weak. Then it seemed nice to her, those little kisses on the neck. It was like the liqueur that enervated her so deliciously. She ended by turning her head and extending her chin, just like a cat.
“There!” she stammered, “there under the ear—that tickles me. Oh! that is nice!”
They had both forgotten La Queue. Fortunately the Emperor was on guard. He pointed them out to the Abbé.
“Look there, Curé—it would be better to marry them.”
“Morals would gain thereby,” declared the priest sententiously.
And he charged himself with the matter for the morrow. ‘Twas he himself that would speak to La Queue. Meanwhile La Queue had drunk so much that the Emperor and the Curé were forced to carry him home. On the way they tried to reason with him on the subject of his daughter; but they could draw from him nothing but growls. Behind them, in the untroubled night, Delphin led Margot home.