“And if she say me nay, what is it that I am to tell her, then?” urged Pierrre.
“Art thou a fool, Pierre?” said his mother, sharply. “Thou'rt ready enough with excuses, I'll warrant, for thy own purposes: invent one now. It matters not, so that thou bring her here.” And Pierre, reassured by this maternal carte blanche for the best lie he could think of, raced away, first tucking securely into a niche of the stone basin the little pot with a red carnation in it which he had brought for his contribution to the birthday fète.
When Hetty saw Pierre waiting at the corner, she exclaimed:
“What, Pierre, loitering here! The sunset is no time to idle. Where are your goats?”
“Milked an hour ago, Tantibba,[1] and in the shed,” replied Pierre, with a saucy air of having the best of the argument, “and my mother waits in the Square to speak to thee as thou passest.”
“I was not going that way, to-night,” replied Hetty. “I am in haste. What does she wish? Will it not do as well in the morning?”
Alarmed at this suggestion, young Pierre made a master-stroke of invention, and replied on the instant:
“Nay, Bo Tantibba,[2] that it will not; for it is the little sister of Jean Cochot which has been badly bitten by a fierce dog, and the mother has her there in her arms waiting for thee to dress her wounds. Oh, but the blood doth run! and the little one's cries would pierce thy heart!” And the rascally Pierre pretended to sob.
1 ([return])
[ “Tante Hibba.”]