"Bon jour, Ma'm'selle Adrienne," he cheerily called, waving his free hand in greeting to a small, dark lass standing on the step of a veranda and indolently swinging a broom. "Comment allez-vous auj ourd'hui?"
"J'm'porte tres bien, merci, Mo'sieu Rene," was the quick response; "et vous?"
"Oh, I'm as lively as a cricket."
"Going a hunting?"
"No, just up here a little way—just on business—up to Mo'sieu Roussillon's for a moment."
"Yes," the girl responded in a tone indicative of something very like spleen, "yes, undoubtedly, Mo'sieu de Ronville; your business there seems quite pressing of late. I have noticed your industrious application to that business."
"Ta-ta, little one," he wheedled, lowering his voice; "you mustn't go to making bug-bears out of nothing."
"Bug-bears!" she retorted, "you go on about your business and I'll attend to mine," and she flirted into the house.
Rene laughed under his breath, standing a moment as if expecting her to come out again; but she did not, and he resumed his walk singing softly—
"Elle a les joues vermeilles, vermeilles, Ma belle, ma belle petite."