Madame de Marsan saw it all; she smiled maliciously and watched Nicette closely.
“What’s the matter with you, child?” she asked, in a contemptuous tone; “you seem very much excited.”
“Nothing, madame, nothing’s the matter,” the poor girl replied, in a trembling voice, looking at Madame de Marsan and at me in turn.
“What’s the price of this orange tree?”
“It’s—it’s—whatever you choose to give, madame; I don’t care.”
“What’s that? you don’t care? That’s a strange answer!—What do you think, my dear Dorsan? Come, answer; I don’t know what’s the matter with you to-night, really!”
“When you are ready, madame, we will go.”
“Ah! I see, monsieur; you have reasons for not wanting to stay in this place with me; my presence embarrasses you—and seems to grieve mademoiselle! Ha! ha! this is too good! to grieve this poor child!—that would be cruel beyond words! Come, monsieur, when you choose. But, I beg you, don’t leave her in despair.—Adieu, my girl!”
She left the shop at last, and I followed her after glancing at Nicette. But she was crying and did not look at me.
When we were in the street, Madame de Marsan laughed as if she would die, and joked me about my amours and about the innocent flower girl. I made no reply, although I might have made some very mortifying remarks; we must be indulgent to the woman who has been weak for our sake. I left her at her door. I was in great haste to see Nicette again; I was determined now to tell her all my thoughts, all my sentiments; I proposed to conceal from her no longer the genuine passion which she had inspired, and which I had fought against to no purpose. She shared it; I could not doubt that. We would be happy together; yes, I would abandon myself thenceforth to the dictates of my heart, which told me that I must possess Nicette. The friendship between us was simply a pretext to conceal our love; we could not misunderstand each other! Why those fruitless efforts to overcome the sentiment that drew us toward each other? Why should cold prudence deprive us of happiness? Is love a crime, pray? and can that which makes us so happy make us guilty?