“Peeling is slow work,” she observed.
“Yes, indeed,” I replied, at the very summit of happiness; “peeling is slow work.”
I should have liked to help her. I ought to have helped her, but I dared not. A pharisaic scruple withheld me. Though my zeal might carry me even to the vermin which you catch without knowing it, I had not the courage to endure the obloquy of peeling potatoes in the public square, before all those roulottes.
Our mutual confidences went no further. Suddenly a guttural voice called,
“Nazzarena!”
She left her vegetables and went away without saying good-bye. I was greatly moved; at least I knew her name. I rushed back to the house at a gallop, leaving behind me grandfather, waving his arms and crying,
“Halloa! Wait!”
It was impossible for me not to run. Wings had sprouted from my shoulders, and during my wild race my whole being was surging, like our music box when the spring was released. I rushed into the garden, bumping against Tem Bossette, who had not stepped aside quickly enough, and who shouted,
“What’s the matter with you, Master Francis?”
I replied laughing, but without checking my speed: