I almost burst out laughing. Monsieur began to walk up and down the room; then, suddenly, he sat down in a chair, stretched out his legs, and, putting into his look something like an apology, and into his voice something like a prayer, he asked:
"Well, Célestine,—for my part, I shall always call you Célestine,—will you help me to take off my boots? That does not annoy you, I hope."
"Certainly not, Monsieur."
"Because, you see, these confounded boots are very difficult to manage; they come off very hard."
With a movement that I tried to make harmonious and supple, and even provocative, I knelt before him, and, while I was helping him to take off his boots, which were damp and covered with mud, I was perfectly conscious that the perfumes of my neck were exciting his nose, and that his eyes were following with increasing interest the outlines of my form as seen through my gown. Suddenly he murmured:
"Great heavens! Célestine, but you smell good."
Without raising my eyes, I assumed an air of innocence:
"I, Monsieur?"
"Surely, you; it can hardly be my feet."
"Oh! Monsieur!"