“Mine? really? You are too generous!”
“And if you don’t love me, you are at liberty to refuse to see me; I do not intend to put any price upon what I do.”
“Oh! what an idea! if I didn’t love you, would I have consented to come with you? would I accept anything from you?”
I allowed her to say no more; a kiss closed her mouth. The doorbell rang violently, and Caroline started up in alarm.
“Who can that be?” she asked.
I calmed her and opened the door.
It was the man from the restaurant, with the supper I had ordered; that sight restored Caroline’s gayety completely. We set the table; the basket was unloaded, the dishes placed on the table, the waiter dismissed. We were alone, on our own premises, our own masters. I was not very hungry, but I was pleased to see that my companion did honor to the repast. She partook of everything and declared that everything was good.
“At all events,” I said to myself, “she hasn’t begun to play the petite-maîtresse yet; she doesn’t try to conceal her pleasure or her appetite.”
She admitted that she never had such a good supper at her aunt’s, and that she loved good things to eat, sweetmeats, and muscat wine. Thereupon I filled her glass with muscatel. I did not wish to make her tipsy; but a little “point,” I thought, would banish the last traces of ceremony that still held her gayety in check.
Caroline was bright; her conversation abounded in sallies and repartee—overabounded perhaps. I foresaw that she was likely to go far and to become a leader in her class. I could understand that she must have been bored to death on Rue des Rosiers; she secretly longed to shine upon a greater stage, because she had a presentiment of the triumph that awaited her. I determined to do my best not to encourage her taste for luxury, fine dresses, and extravagance; for it would be the devil’s own job to make her take a different road when she was fairly started.