"You're hungry and you weep,
Come, maid, and fall asleep;
Come, you'll have plenty of gold,
Thyself to me be sold.
La rifla-fla-fla-fla, la rifla—"
"The devil take that song! This one is not at all jolly," remarked the Count of Plouernel, struck by the melancholic accents of the young girl, who, however, quickly resumed her reckless bearing and wonted cheerfulness. "I understand the allusion," he added; "but my pretty shop-girl is not hungry."
"The next thing—is she coquettish? Does she love to be prinked? Does she like jewelry, or theaters? These are famous means to blast a poor girl."
"I presume she likes all those things. But she has a father and mother, and they probably keep a close watch over her. In view of all this I had a plan—"
"You? At last you have a plan of your own! And what is it?"
"It is to make frequent and large purchases in that shop, even to loan them money at a pinch, because I know those small traders must ever be hard pushed for cash to pay their bills."
"In other words, you believe they will be ready to sell you their daughter—for cash?"
"No; but I figure that they will at least shut their eyes—I would then be able to dazzle the minx with presents, and proceed rapidly to my goal. Well, how does my plan strike you?"
"I'll be blown! How can I tell?" answered Pradeline, affecting innocence. "If things are done in your upper world in that manner, if parents sell their daughters, perhaps the thing is done in the same way among the poorer folks. Still, I don't believe it. These people are too bourgeois, they are too niggardly, you see?"
"My little girl," said the Count of Plouernel haughtily, "you are emancipating yourself prodigiously."