“You shall give me Cressida; I should like to make his acquaintance very much; and then in exchange I’ll give you this goat, that you think so pretty.”
“No, I cannot give you Cressida.”
“Can’t give me Cressida! why not?”
“I can never part with Cressida.”
“You mean,” rejoined Eusèbe, “that you don’t think Jeanne is worth so much as the horse. Then the fact is that you don’t think her so pretty after all; and you’ve been telling lies in calling her pretty all this time.”
“Telling lies?”
“Yes, you have. She’s ugly in reality; she is; I think she’s frightful now. Oh, you ugly beast, I’ll kill you! There, there, there’s something for you to punish you for being so ugly.”
And he gave the poor goat several cuts on the head with a whip.
“Eusèbe,” cried my little friend, “how can you be so cruel?”
Maurice saw the tears trickling from the eyes of Jeanne, and pointed them out to Eusèbe, who only shrugged his shoulders. He was not in the least ashamed of himself, and added,—