M. Bourget did not hear her; he had caught sight of a young girl with a merry face who was crossing the court-yard, singing, a dish covered with vine-leaves in her hand. The sun struck down on her bright hair escaping under her cap; she had a pretty blue skirt and a large apron.
“What has she got?” asked the ex-builder, quickening his steps. “Here, Toinette, Jeanne, what you will, I want you!”
“Stop, Rose-Marie,” Nathalie called, wonderingly. The girl came towards them, smiling more broadly, and showing her white teeth.
“What have you got there?” demanded M. Bourget. “But I’ll wager I know.” He lifted a leaf. “Ah, ha, as I thought! Vine-snails, and fine ones, too; I never saw finer.”
“Freshly picked, monsieur.”
“Yes, yes, plain enough. Freshly picked, and beauties! There, there, that will do, my girl,” he said with a sigh and a wave of dismissal.
“Would you not like some to take back with you?” asked his daughter, innocently.
“Ah, but it wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do,” M. Bourget declared, shaking his head. “As if every soul in the château would not know that Madame Léon’s father had bought vine-snails!”
“And then!” Her voice was scornful. Her father looked at her.
“I begin to understand,” he remarked, frowning. “It appears to me that you have already forgotten what, Heaven knows, I preached enough about before your marriage: that Madame Léon de Beaudrillart is not the same person as Mademoiselle Bourget, and that to effect the necessary change you must forget a great deal. For instance, you should forget that I ever ate vine-snails.”