"That's nothing," said Monsieur Antoine; "I'll wash it out myself."
"No! no! that would make it worse; you'd pour the whole carafe on it and drown my girl. Come here, my child, and let me take out the stain. I have a horror of stains! Wouldn't it be a pity to spoil this pretty new dress?"
Emile looked for the first time at Gilberte's costume. He had hitherto paid no attention to aught save her graceful figure and the beauty of her face. She wore a dress of grey drilling, quite new, but coarse, with a little neckerchief, white as snow, about her neck. Gilberte noticed his scrutiny, and, instead of being humiliated by it, seemed to take some pride in saying that she liked her dress, that it was of good material, that she could defy thorns and briers, and that, as Janille chose it herself, nothing could be more agreeable to her to wear.
"The dress is charming, in truth," said Emile; "my mother has one just like it."
That was not true; Emile, although naturally truthful, told this little lie involuntarily. Gilberte was not deceived by it; but she was grateful to him for the delicacy of his purpose.
As for Janille, she was visibly flattered by this testimony to her good taste, for she was almost as proud of that quality as of Gilberte's beauty.
"My daughter is no coquette," said she, "but I am for her. And what would you say, Monsieur Antoine, if your child was not dressed genteelly and becomingly as befits her rank in society?"
"We have nothing to do with society, my dear Janille," said Monsieur Antoine, "and I don't complain. Don't indulge in any useless illusions."
"You have a disappointed air when you say that, Monsieur Antoine; for my part, I tell you that rank can't be lost: but that's just like you; you always throw the blade after the helve!"
"I throw nothing at all," retorted the châtelain; "on the contrary, I accept everything as it comes."