The mistress received my compliments on the neatness of her house with evident pride. While I was speaking the door opened, and the young woman who sang so well came in. When she saw me, she blushed, and started out again.
"Stay with us, Marie," Madame Kerouët said to her, affectionately.
I could not look on the enchanting beauty of that face without thinking of the Holy Virgins of Raphaël.
My admiration was so marked, my astonishment so great, on finding such beauty hidden in a farmhouse,—and I took no pains to conceal my feelings,—that Marie was quite taken back.
"This is my niece, monsieur," said the fermière, who neither noticed my surprise nor Desdemona's trouble. "She is the daughter of my poor brother, lieutenant in the Old Guard, who was killed at Waterloo. Thanks to the protection of Monseigneur the Bishop of Nantes, we were permitted to send Marie to St. Denis, where she was educated like a demoiselle. She remained there until her marriage, which took place at Nantes about a year ago." Madame Kerouët said this with a sigh. Then she continued: "But sit down, monsieur; and thou, Marie, go get a bottle of wine and a bit of warm galette."
"A thousand thanks, madame," said I, "I would rather not take anything. As soon as the rain is over I will continue on my journey."
To keep herself in countenance, Marie sat down to her aunt's spinning-wheel.
"Perhaps you are on your way to the château de Serval?"
"Non, madame; I told you I was going to Blémur."
"Ah, yes, to be sure, to Blémur; pardon, monsieur,—so much the better for you."