Galuchet bent his head over his books and fought all day against the discomfort that follows over-indulgence.
Emile passed the whole week head over ears in hydrostatics; he indulged in no other distraction than to seek out Jean Jappeloup in the evening and chat with him; and, as he always tried to bring the conversation around to Gilberte, the carpenter finally said to him:
"Look you, Monsieur Emile, you never get tired of that subject, that's clear enough. Do you know that Mère Janille thinks you are in love with her child?"
"What an idea!" rejoined the young man, confused by this sudden apostrophe.
"It's a sensible idea enough. Why shouldn't you be in love with her?"
"True, why shouldn't I be in love with her?" echoed Emile, more and more embarrassed. "But can it be that you would speak jestingly of such a possibility, friend Jean?"
"I should say that you were the one, my boy, for you answer me as if we were in jest. Come, why not tell me the truth? out with it or I'll not talk to you any more."
"Jean, if I were really in love with a person for whom I have as much respect as for my own mother, my best friend should know nothing of it."
"I know very well that I am not your best friend, and yet I should like to have you tell me."
"Explain yourself, Jean."