“He might make a good husband for some nice girl,” the father said apropos of nothing a little later.
Eugenie was scouring a copper kettle and her head lowered as she applied herself to the utensil with more determination, without making any comment.
A girl should not be too frivolous, mused M. Chauraux, but still Eugenie ought not to be that bashful. She could at least encourage the young man, he said to himself, and take a little interest in him when he comes to the house. So far the conversations in the house were invariably carried on between the men, and always about the Emperor.
“You are past eighteen, my child,” he presently addressed his daughter, “and if the right young man would come along I should like to see you married.”
He rose from the table and came close to her. Eugenie, her face reddening, did not raise her eyes.
“You like Monsieur Zorn—hein?”
The scouring sound was the only reply.
M. Chauraux was puzzled. He could not quite reconcile her blushes with her silence. She never did care for the German young men, he said to himself.
“He is so different from the other Germans,” the father pursued the same object, flattering himself on his ingenious probing.
“Yes, he is different.”