Not a poor girl, as she was pleased to term herself, but a common actress from some booth of Montmartre, a skilled adventuress, who had set herself to delude a foolish boy, knowing what was to be gained thereby. And in truth he was a foolish boy, a most annoying one, a most deceitful one, for I had made no progress when I had counted all was won.
He left her at the gate of a tiny cottage, and, as soon as the bend in the road had hidden him from view, I walked through the garden, and, lifting the latch, boldly entered.
Mademoiselle had removed her hat, and stood resting her head against the latticed window, gazing up the path that he had taken.
She turned as I entered, and stood looking towards me, and yet not with so very much wonderment, for suddenly she broke into a smile.
"You have entered to rest a while," she said. "You are welcome; we are not altogether strangers, for I have heard so much of you."
"Heard of me?" I queried, rather sharply, for this girl seemed to have the manners of such as myself.
"Certainly," she replied, still smiling; "you are the grand dame whose carriage broke down, and who is so charmed with the rustic delights of Lecrese that she prolongs her stay indefinitely," and there was a tinge of becoming satire in her voice.
"How do you know that?"
"You are the only one who would walk in the woods in a costume fit only for driving in the Bois de Boulogne," she answered, and I flushed with annoyance, for she looked so cool, while I was hot with the glowing of the sun and the burning of my temper.
"We cannot all pretend to rustic innocence, mademoiselle."