“Oh, yes, indeed he is. But those little girls were very ill-natured, I think.”
“Yes, were they not? Suppose now we become great friends. I shall be here every day, and sometimes we’ll play together: do you agree?”
Maurice said he should be very glad.
“But I’ve told you my name,” went on Adrienne; “tell me now in return, what’s your name?”
“Maurice de Roisel.”
“Maurice de Roisel! that’s a pretty name. Have you a title? If you have, I’ll marry you when you’re grown up.”
“Oh, as for a title, I really don’t know, but I’ll ask mamma if I have one.”
“Do; you need only be a duke, you understand.”
Saying this she went off to play with her hoop, and Maurice continued his ride, with Jacques walking by his side.
As Maurice approached the gate of the garden, he beheld a sight which filled his kind young heart with pity. Seated on the pavement outside the garden, and leaning against the iron railing, was a young woman with three pretty children. They appeared to be in the deepest despair, but there was a certain dignity in their grief; they wept silently, and seemed anxious to avoid the notice of the passers-by. As he watched them, he thought to himself—his mind dwelling upon his own anxiety—“I wonder if their father’s dead that they cry so bitterly?” He did not like to speak to them, however, but only looked at them from a little distance through the railings. Presently one of the children—a charming little girl—looked up at Maurice, and then he ventured to approach and ask her what made them so miserable.