"But suppose it were not mine? suppose it were a mere accident that that name was on the ticket?"
The girl gazed earnestly at me, then exclaimed impatiently:
"Come, go on! what do you mean? I don't like to have anyone hold my nose under water."
"I mean, mademoiselle, that, like yourself, I do not choose to deceive anyone, or to hold myself out for what I am not. The author of whose works you are so fond—I am not he. My name is Charles Rochebrune; and I haven't the least little bit of renown to serve as a halo to my name. If my concierge lied to you yesterday, it was because I thought that you would not come here for poor me; and, as I ardently desired to see you again, I ventured upon that little fraud, to obtain the pleasure of receiving you here. But I never intended to carry it any further.—That is what I wanted to tell you."
Mademoiselle Rosette was silent for a few moments; I heard her mutter in a disappointed tone: "It's a pity!" But the next minute she smiled and held out her hand, saying:
"I don't care—it was good of you to tell me the truth!"
"Then you are no longer angry with me?"
"What good would that do?"
"And you will love me a little?"
"We shall see. Ah! a piano! Who plays the piano? I love music!"