“Come, come, mam’zelle, be more reasonable.”
My grandfather answered them:
“Speak more gently to her. When I think that her brother, whom she resembles, poor little thing, died of convulsions after having been scolded by his mother—I do not wish that she should be spoken to harshly.”
“That is what I told you just now, sir,” added Arthémise, who was very red and seemed very angry, “and I have not told you half the fear I felt when I found her in that garret. I didn’t think I was speaking so truthfully this morning in calling the dragging of this poor little one to the school a murder.”
“My Juliette,” began my grandfather again, “I beg of you, let us return to Chauny. Arthémise’s papa and mamma want her to come back to our house and she will not disobey them. Ask her if she will.”
“I want to return,” said Arthémise, “if Madame regrets having turned me out like a thief.”
“She regrets it, Arthémise.”
“I will go to Chauny, yes, but never again to the school,” I said to grandfather.
“No, no, don’t worry about it.”
We left in my grandfather’s cabriolet. I was seated, well wrapped up, on my nurse’s knees. I saw the full moon for the first time. I still recall my astonishment and the confused ideas I had about the great night-sun, so pale and so cold.