He stammered: “That's it! that's it! it's the fault of my disposition.”
“How so, of your disposition?”
“Yes, when I become attached to a person I become attached to him, that's all.”
She began to laugh: “You are not going to try to tell me that Maramballe's sweet disposition caused you to become attached to him for life.”
He was fidgeting about on his bench visibly embarrassed, and he muttered behind his long beard:
“It was not he, it was you!”
The old lady, who had a sweet face, with a snowy line of curly white hair between her forehead and her bonnet, turned around in her chair and observed her servant with a surprised look, exclaiming: “I, my poor Alexandre! How so?”
He began to look up in the air, then to one side, then toward the distance, turning his head as do timid people when forced to admit shameful secrets. At last he exclaimed, with the courage of a trooper who is ordered to the line of fire: “You see, it's this way—the first time I brought a letter to mademoiselle from the lieutenant, mademoiselle gave me a franc and a smile, and that settled it.”
Not understanding well, she questioned him “Explain yourself.”
Then he cried out, like a malefactor who is admitting a fatal crime: “I had a sentiment for madame! There!”