“Oh! never mind! What harm is there in hoping to be a mother?—Besides, Monsieur Blémont isn’t ‘people;’ he is our friend; he proved it that night that I was sick.—But come and see what pretty rooms we have.”
The little woman showed me over her apartments, which consisted of three rooms and a small dressing-room. She stopped in front of the fireplace in her bedroom and said:
“Do you see? We have a clock!”
“Hush, Marguerite!” said Ernest.
“No, no, I am going to speak. Ought I to pretend to be proud with Monsieur Henri, who knew me when I was so poor and unhappy? I am sure that it pleases him to see that we have all these things.”
“Indeed, you are quite right, madame; and you judge me aright in thinking that I am happy in your happiness.”
“I was right, you see. I also have a woman who comes in in the morning, to do the heavy work. Ernest insisted upon it, because he declares that I am not strong enough.”
“How interesting to monsieur to know that!”
“Yes, yes, it is interesting.—He is always scolding me, because he says that I am ignorant of the proprieties. Bless my soul! it isn’t my fault; it seems to me that one may well talk to her friends about what interests her; I am so happy!”
And Marguerite began to dance about the room; then she ran and threw her arms about Ernest’s neck and kissed him. She was as much a child as ever; but she was not yet eighteen. I prayed that she might retain that happy disposition for a long time to come.