"And I suppose that, like me, you have come to see some friend in this prison?"
"Yes," stammered poor Fleur-de-Marie, blushing up to her eyes with shame and confusion; "I was going—I mean I have just been seeing some one, and, of course, am now returning home."
"You live a good way out of Paris, I dare say? Ah, you dear, kind girl! It is just like you to come all this distance to perform a good action. Do you remember the poor lying-in woman to whom you gave, not only your mattress, with the necessary baby-clothes, but even what money you had left, and which we meant to have spent in a country excursion; for you were then crazy for the country, my pretty village maid?"
"And you, who cared nothing about it, how very good-natured and obliging of you to go thither, merely for the sake of pleasing me!"
"Well, but I pleased myself at the same time. Why, you, who were always inclined to be grave and serious, when once you got among the fields, or found yourself in the thick shade of a wood, oh, then, what a wild, overjoyed little madcap you became! Nobody would have fancied it the same person,—flying after the butterflies,—crowding your hands and apron with more flowers than either could hold. It made me quite delighted to see you! It was quite treat enough for a week to recollect all your happiness and enjoyment. But do let me have another look at you: how sweetly pretty you look in that nice little round cap! Yes, decidedly, you were cut out to be a country girl,—just as much as I was to be a Paris grisette. Well, I hope you are happy, since you have got the sort of line you prefer; and, certainly, after all, I cannot say I was so very much astonished at your never coming near me. 'Oh,' said I, 'that dear Goualeuse is not suited for Paris; she is a true wild flower, as the song says; and the air of great cities is not for them. So,' said I, 'my pretty, dear Goualeuse has found a place in some good honest family who live in the country.' And I was right, was I not, dear?"
"Yes," said Fleur-de-Marie, nearly sinking with confusion, "quite right."
"There is only one thing I have to reproach you for."
"Reproach me?" inquired Fleur-de-Marie, looking tearfully at her companion.
"Yes, you ought to have let me know before you went. You should have said 'good-bye,' if you were only leaving me at night to return in the morning; or, at any rate, you should have sent me word how you were going on."
"I—I—quitted Paris so suddenly," stammered out Fleur-de-Marie, becoming momentarily more and more embarrassed, "that, indeed—I—was not able—"