“Ah, yes! let us,” said she. “This lovely doll of mine shall run with us. It will be great fun!”
So Fanchon and Frederic took each an arm of the doll, and off they ran through the bushes, on and on, until they came to a small lake. There they stopped, and Frederic said:—
“Suppose we wait a minute. I have a gun now, and perhaps I may hit a duck among the rushes.”
At that moment, Fanchon screamed out: “Oh! just look at my doll! What’s the matter with her?”
Indeed, the poor thing was in a miserable condition. Neither Fanchon nor Frederic had been paying any attention to her, and the bushes had torn all the clothes off her back; both her legs were broken; while her pretty waxen face was covered with so many scratches that it was hideous to look at.
“Oh! my beautiful, beautiful child!” sobbed Fanchon.
“There, you see what a stupid creature that doll of yours is!” cried Frederic. “She can’t even take a little run, but she must tear and spoil her clothes! Give her to me!”
And before Fanchon could say a word, or cry: “Oh! Oh!” Frederic snatched the doll, and flung her into the lake.
“Never mind, Fanchon!” said he consolingly. “Never mind, if I can shoot a duck, you shall have the most beautiful wing-feathers.”
Just then a noise was heard among the rushes, and Frederic instantly took aim with his wooden gun. But he dropped it quickly from his shoulder, saying:—