“Oh, Monsieur le Cure, that is what you may call a white lie, and it is making you very unhappy, because naturally you are the soul of truth; but if I torment you thus it is because I have the greatest interest in knowing what was said.”
“You are right,” interrupted Jean, “you are right. They said you were one of the most elegant, the most brilliant, and the—”
“And one of the prettiest women in Paris. With a little indulgence they might say that; but that is not all yet—there is something else.”
“Oh! I assure you—”
“Yes, there is something else, and I should like to hear it this very moment, and I should like the information to be very frank and very exact. It seems to me that I am in a lucky vein to-day, and I feel as if you were both a little inclined to be my friends, and that you will be so entirely some day. Well, tell me if I am right in supposing that should false and absurd stories be told about me you will help me to contradict them.”
“Yes!” replied Jean, “you are right in believing that.”
“Well, then, it is to you that I address myself. You are a soldier, and courage is part of your profession. Promise me to be brave. Will you promise me?”
“What do you understand by being brave?”
“Promise, promise—without explanations, without conditions.”
“Well, I promise.”