“Oh dear! it hurts to laugh like that.—Tell me, Bertrand, when did you come back?”
“The next day, mademoiselle.”
“And Auguste hasn’t been there again since?”
“No, mademoiselle; he’s often wanted to go, but he hasn’t had time.”
“Oh! of course not; he has so much to do! And he hasn’t been to see me once in the last fortnight! He leaves me sick, almost dying! And I am not well yet. Oh, no! I am still suffering terribly.—What’s that you’re eating, Bertrand?”
“Just plain Roquefort cheese, mademoiselle.”
“It’s queer to watch another person eat; it makes me want to eat too; you see, I always have to do what I see others do. You may as well give me some breakfast, my little Bertrand, because, you see, if I should whine and cry till to-morrow, it’s all nonsense, and my calf wouldn’t be any bigger for that; would it, Bertrand?”
“Mademoiselle, if you——”
“He’s a good fellow, this Bertrand; I love him a lot, I do; yes, I’m very fond of him, although he’s a bit of a traitor, like his master.”
“Oh! as for that, mademoiselle, when you talk about being honest, I flatter myself——”