All the books I had read had shown me it was really dangerous, but also pleasant, so I said:
"It is dangerous, yet every one falls in love. And women suffer for love, too."
She looked at me, as she looked at every one, through her lashes, and said gravely:
"You think so? You understand that? Then the best thing I can wish you is that you may not forget it."
And then she asked me what verses I liked best.
I began to repeat some from memory, with gesticulations. She listened silently and gravely, then rose, and, walking up and down the room, said thoughtfully:
"We shall have to have you taught, my little wild animal. I must think about it. Your employers—are they relatives of yours?"
When I answered in the affirmative she exclaimed: "Oh!" as if she blamed me for it.
She gave me "The Songs of Béranger," a special edition with engravings, gilt edges, and a red leather binding. These songs made me feel giddy, with their strange mixture of bitter grief and boisterous happiness.
With a cold chill at my heart I read the bitter words of "The Old Beggar."