"Why, what do I care what it is?"
"Well, I'm sure that's very civil, M. Germain!"
"Nay, I only meant to say that, be it what it may, it must needs be dear and precious to me, since it comes from you. Oh, Mlle. Rigolette, your unwearied kindness, your touching sympathy, fills me with the deepest gratitude, and—and—" But finding it impossible to conclude the sentence, Germain cast down his eyes and remained silent.
"Well," said Rigolette, "and what else?"
"And—devotion!" stammered out Germain.
"Why could you not have said 'respect,' as people write at the end of a letter?" asked Rigolette, impatiently. "Ah, but I know very well that was not what you were going to say, else why did you stop all of a sudden?"
"I assure you—"
"There, don't endeavour to assure me of anything; I can see you are blushing through this grating. Now why can't you speak out, and tell me every thought and wish of your heart? Am I not your true and faithful friend as well as old companion?" continued the grisette, timidly, for she but waited the confession of Germain's love for her to tell him frankly and sincerely how truly she returned his affection with a passion as true and as generous as his own.
"I assure you Mlle. Rigolette," said the poor prisoner with a sigh, "that I had nothing else to say, and that I am concealing nothing whatever from you."
"For shame for shame," cried Rigolette, stamping her foot; "don't tell such stories. Now, look here," continued she, drawing a large, white, woollen neck wrapper from her basket; "do you see this beautiful thing? Well, I brought it on purpose for you. But now—to punish you for being so deceitful and sly—I will not give it to you. I knitted it on purpose for you, too; for, said I, it must be so damp and cold in those yards in the prison. And this nice, soft, woollen handkerchief is just the thing to keep him warm; he is so delicate!"