“Oh! a person can’t be always the same.”
“Still, if you have nothing to distress you——”
“No, monsieur, no, I haven’t anything.”
“Your eyes tell me the contrary. Dear Nicette, you have been crying.”
“No, monsieur; and even if I had—why, sometimes one cries without knowing why, and without being unhappy.”
We said nothing more. I did not choose to question her further, for I thought that I could guess what caused her distress. She did not look at me again; doubtless she was afraid that I would read her eyes. She was pensive and silent. Nor could I find anything to say. Her sadness had infected my heart. But the silence had a charm which we both enjoyed. However, I thought that I ought to try to divert her thoughts, and at the same time turn my own mind from reflections that were too hazardous. I went to the table and looked at the paper and the writing.
“You write well already, Nicette.”
“Not any too well yet, monsieur; but I hope, with time——”
“Do you still take lessons?”
“No, I haven’t any teacher now; he said things to me that I didn’t like; he didn’t want to give me the word I wanted for a copy; he always made me write: Commencement, commonly, exactly; and I didn’t see why I couldn’t learn just as well by writing Dorsan as commonly, although it isn’t so long. That made him angry, so I sent him away; I can get along without him. I know how to write the small letters too.”