“Mademoiselle, you have wrapped your face in cotton-wool and a silk handkerchief, but there’s nothing the matter with you; and you have put that thick veil on your bonnet to see some one yourself without being seen.”
“Where did you acquire all that perspicacity?” cried Modeste, blushing.
“Moreover, mademoiselle, you have not put on your corset; a cold in the head wouldn’t oblige you to disfigure your waist and wear half a dozen petticoats, nor hide your hands in these old gloves, and your pretty feet in those hideous shoes, nor dress yourself like a beggar-woman, nor—”
“That’s enough,” she said. “How am I to be certain that you will obey me?”
“My master is obliged to go to Sainte-Adresse. He does not like it, but he is so truly good he won’t deprive me of my Sunday; I will offer to go for him.”
“Go, and I will trust you.”
“You are sure I can do nothing for you in Havre?”
“Nothing. Hear me, mysterious dwarf,—look,” she continued, pointing to the cloudless sky; “can you see a single trace of that bird that flew by just now? No; well then, my actions are pure as the air is pure, and leave no stain behind them. You may reassure Dumay and the Latournelles, and my mother. That hand,” she said, holding up a pretty delicate hand, with the points of the rosy fingers, through which the light shone, slightly turning back, “will never be given, it will never even be kissed by what people call a lover until my father has returned.”
“Why don’t you want me in the church to-day?”
“Do you venture to question me after all I have done you the honor to say, and to ask of you?”