"Of me? How glad I am!" exclaimed M. Macreuse's protectress, quickly.
"I beg you will have the goodness to call me Ernestine instead of Mlle. de Beaumesnil. If you knew how it overawes me, mademoiselle."
"I feared I should displease you, mademoiselle, by being more familiar."
"Once more I beseech you to say 'Ernestine' and not mademoiselle. Are we not relatives? And after a little, if you find I am deserving of your love, you will say 'My dear Ernestine,' will you not?"
"Ah, my affection was won the moment I saw you, my dear Ernestine," replied Helena, with effusion. "I could see that all the Christian graces, so adorable in one of your years, flourished in your heart. I will not speak of your beauty, though it is so charmingly spirituelle in its type, for you look like one of Raphael's madonnas. Beauty," continued the devotee, casting down her eyes, "beauty is a fleeting gift and valueless in the eyes of the Saviour, while the noble qualities with which you are endowed will ensure your eternal salvation."
Overwhelmed by this avalanche of extravagant praise, the orphan did not know what to say in reply, and could only stammer a feeble protest:
"I do not deserve such praise, mademoiselle," she said, "and—and—"
Then, well pleased to discover a means of escaping this flattery which made a singularly unpleasant impression upon her in spite of her inexperience, she added:
"But you said you wished to ask me something, did you not, mademoiselle?"
"Yes," responded Helena, "I came to ask your wishes in regard to service to-morrow."