The young girl's face was illumined with delight.
“Oh, and mamma has gone out,” said she. “But she will return soon. You will wait for her, won't you?”
“Yes, if she is not too long.”
“Oh, how insolent! Too long, with me! You treat me like a child.”
“No, not so much as you think,” he replied.
He felt in his heart a longing to please her, to be gallant and witty, as in the most successful days of his youth, one of those instinctive desires that excite all the faculties of charming, that make the peacock spread its tail and the poet write verses. Quick and vivacious phrases rose to his lips, and he talked as he knew how to talk when he was at his best. The young girl, animated by his vivacity, answered him with all the mischief and playful shrewdness that were in her.
Suddenly, while he was discussing an opinion, he exclaimed: “But you have already said that to me often, and I answered you—”
She interrupted him with a burst of laughter.
“Ah, you don't say 'tu' to me any more! You take me for mamma!”
He blushed and was silent, then he stammered: