“Ah! how kind you are, madame! how lovely you are! If you knew how—I—I—I love you!”
It required a great effort on Chérubin’s part to say that, and he dared not look at the young woman, fearing that she would consider his declaration rather abrupt. But Mademoiselle Chichette, far from seeming offended, began to laugh idiotically, and replied:
“Yes, yes! I know. Ha! ha! It’s nice to love, and you have very fine eyes. Ha! ha! I’d like right well to laugh with you.”
And the so-called Polish countess, who seemed, in truth, much inclined to laugh, and who showed some very pretty teeth, looked at the young man in a meaning fashion, and did not tell him to talk about something else. For a moment Chérubin was tempted to kiss his enslaver, who almost offered him her fresh, pink cheeks; he confined himself to taking a hand, which he laid upon his heart and pressed it hard.
Chichette, tired perhaps of having her hand pressed to Chérubin’s heart, said to him, still laughing:
“How your thingumbob goes tick-tack! It’s like a big clock.”
“Oh! it is emotion, madame; it is pleasure; it is——”
“Aren’t we going to breakfast?” cried Chichette suddenly; “I’m hungry, I can hear my belly crying; it goes flouc-flouc!”
These words brought Chérubin back to less romantic thoughts; he ran to the door, opened it, and shouted:
“I say, young one—what about that breakfast?”