"Oh, hush—mon Dieu! we must not begin to speak thus, or where shall we end? I fear you already begin to deem me hollow as a popo."
"As what?"
"I forgot that you are a stranger here. The popo-tree bears hollow fruit, and here it is the symbol of insincerity."
"Ah, madame—may I never find such in you!"
"People will never understand me—the victim of circumstances and destiny. My dear Mr. Oliver, you know not how triste is the fate of one like me, having a heart capable of all the love and affection one can feel—yet thrust back upon myself, that love and that affection have no legitimate object whereon to be lavished; thus life becomes a dreary, dreary void!"
It was a perilous style for a pretty woman to adopt, in addressing an imaginative lad like me: we both became agitated and coloured deeply; but madame was the first to recover herself.
"Listen to me," said she: "I remember that M. Marmontel elsewhere says, 'We are naturally disposed to seek and to believe that we discover in the features of a man, what we know to be in his heart.' I sought goodness and truth in yours, and I do believe that I love you——"
"Love me—you!" I exclaimed.
"As a friend—a dear friend, truly and well, but—but leave me just now. Come in a day or two—I shall be at home—always at home to you, M. Oliver—I owe you so much, and I am so lonely here—oh, so lonely in heart and soul—for I have nothing to lean on—to cling to! adieu, monsieur."
She presented her cheek; but her manner, her beauty, the time, all conduced to bewilder me, and I pressed my lips to hers, by an impulse which I could not resist, and rushed from the avenue into the highway, with a speed that might have made any one suppose M. de Rouvigny was lurking, blunderbuss in hand behind the cabbage-trees.