"What may it be?"
"The attrition of many secrets—burning secrets," I said, laughing.
"Mordieu! what charming impudence!" said she, her large eyes glowing thoughtfully, with some look of surprise. "You do not know me, m'sieur. I have kept many secrets and know the trick."
"Ah, then I shall ask of you a great favor," said I—"that you keep my secret also, that you do not tell her of my love."
She wheeled her horse with a merry peal of laughter, hiding her face, now red as her glove.
"It is too late," said she, "I have written her."
We rode on, laughing. In spite of the serious character of her words, I fell a-quaking from crown to stirrup. I was now engaged to Louison, or as good as that, and, being a man of honor, I must think no more of her sister.
"I wrote her of your confession," said she, "for I knew it would make her so happy; but, you know, I did not tell of—of the circumstances."
"Well, it will make it all the easier for me," I said.
"Ma'm'selle, I assure you—I am not sorry."
"And, my friend, you are lucky: she is so magnificent."