When she passed the fruit, Athalie found several that were not ripe.
“These apricots are good for nothing,” she said to a servant.
“We must have some better ones than these,” cried La Thomassinière. “Tell the gardener to bring some at once—the best she can find.”
The servant obeyed, and Mademoiselle Tapotte soon arrived with a basket filled with superb fruit, which she handed to Athalie, keeping her eyes on the ground as if she dared not look at the guests; whereas, on the contrary, the young men scrutinized the buxom creature, making comments in undertones, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière cast furtive glances at her.
“That is right!” said Athalie, as she took the basket, “these are fine. See, messieurs, they have just been picked; they look much better.—Another time, Tapotte, don’t send me green fruit.”
“No, madame,” said the gardener, with a very awkward curtsy; then she took her leave, much redder than when she came.
“What did you call that stout damsel, madame?” inquired one of the young men.
“Tapotte, monsieur.”
“Indeed! that’s a queer name.”
“It’s amusing,” said the marquis.