"Why, you must believe yourself very wary, very strong, to think you can escape the snares they'll set for you."
"Indeed it's not that, mademoiselle, but it is that—I daren't say—it's a mystery, a secret."
Secret and mystery had the same effect upon the old maid as love and marriage have upon a young maid—they aroused all her feelings. Marguerite's little eyes beamed and she cried,—
"What, my child! you have a secret? I am not curious, but you interest me; I should like to be useful to you, but it's necessary that I should know everything that concerns you. What is this mystery that you dare not mention?"
"Mademoiselle, I did not wish to confide in anyone in Paris, for somebody told me there were pickpockets who would steal my treasure."
"You possess a treasure?"
"Oh, yes, mademoiselle; but one with which I could still die of hunger."
"Why, indeed, what does that matter, my child, hasn't every young girl a treasure without price—her innocence, her virtue—and those who guard it the best are not always the richest. When I see shameless women, who live in luxury and abundance, riding in gilded carriages, it makes me feel ill. But about your secret, my child; would you refuse to confide in me?"
"No, indeed, mademoiselle, you appear so respectable, so good, that I cannot refuse you."
Marguerite half smiled and tapped the country woman on the arm, for praise is a flower whose perfume is grateful at any age.