"Yes, Mademoiselle Donet."
"You will come to lunch, of course?"
"Well—if you are so kind as to invite me, I can't refuse."
"It is understood, then, Monsieur César—next Thursday at twelve, the same as to-day."
"Thursday at twelve, Mam'zelle Donet!"
LITTLE LOUISE ROQUÉ
Mederic Rompel, the postman, who was familiarly called by the country people Mederi, started at the usual hour from the posthouse at Rouy-le-Tors. Having passed through the little town with his big strides of an old trooper, he first cut across the meadows of Villaumes in order to reach the bank of the Brindelle, which led him along the water's edge to the village of Carvelin, where his distribution commenced. He went quickly, following the course of the narrow river, which frothed, murmured, and boiled along its bed of grass, under an arch of willow-trees. The big stones, impeding the flow, had around them a cushion of water, a sort of cravat ending in a knot of foam. In some places, there were cascades, a foot wide, often invisible, which made under the leaves, under the tendrils, under a roof of verdure, a big noise at once angry and gentle; then, further on, the banks widened out, and you saw a small, placid lake where trouts were swimming in the midst of all that green vegetation which keeps undulating in the depths of tranquil streams.
Mederic went on without a halt, seeing nothing, and with only this thought in his mind: "My first letter is for the Poivron family, then I have one for M. Renardet; so I must cross the wood."
His blue blouse, fastened round his waist by a black leathern belt moved in a quick, regular fashion above the green hedge of the willow-trees; and his stick of stout holly kept time with the steady movement of his legs.