“Does he! pardi! rather! Catch him holding back!”
The stout girl chuckled, and Auguste said to himself:
“It seems that Monsieur de la Thomassinière, who talks of nothing but the duchesses, countesses and baronesses he courts, dances attendance on and deigns to be tender with his gardener. How many men try to take credit in society for brilliant conquests, when they have triumphed over nobody but their cook! However, there are many baronesses whose calves aren’t as firm as these.”
While he indulged in these reflections, the young man continued to pat the leg, and the stout girl to laugh. Her basket being full, she began to descend the ladder, and, as Auguste did not lower his hand, that member necessarily found itself above the calf, where there was still much to pat, and the stout girl laughed louder than ever.
“Does Monsieur de la Thomassinière permit himself to embrace you also?” Auguste asked, looking the gardener in the face.
“Well, I say! well, pardié! Well, well, but you make me laugh!”
At that moment Auguste saw Athalie’s pretty cap over the hedge, as that lady approached the orchard. He ceased instantly to make the stout girl laugh, and asked her hastily:
“Your name?”
“Tapotte.”
“And your room?”