The damsel went her way, with a branch of walnut in her hand, driving her ass before her, apparently oblivious of the fact that the young man had alighted from his cabriolet. She did not look back, but contented herself with calling out from time to time: “Go on there, White Jean;” and White Jean went none the faster.
Auguste soon overtook the milkmaid. He walked behind her a few moments, to examine her; she was well-built, so far as one could judge of her shape beneath the thick wrapper in which she was muffled; her foot was certainly small, although encased in heavy shoes, and her woolen stockings covered a shapely leg, which he could examine at his leisure, for a milkmaid wears very short skirts.
Auguste stepped forward; the girl looked up and seemed surprised to see the young man of the cabriolet walking by her side. But she turned her head away, with another “go on!” to her ass, in which there was no touch of romance.
Our young exquisite gazed closely at the girl, who wore a cap perched on top of her head, which concealed none of her features.
“She is very pretty,” he said to himself; “fine eyes, a pretty mouth, a complexion like the rose; but nothing extraordinary, after all. Her freshness is the freshness of a village girl; she’s a mere country beauty, and I should have done as well to stay in the carriage. However, as I have alighted, I may as well try to gain something by it.”
And the young man continued to stare at the milkmaid, with a smile on his face; but she, apparently annoyed by the fine gentleman’s scrutiny, said to him sharply:
“Shall you soon be through looking at me?”
“Isn’t it within the law to admire you?”
“No, I don’t like to have anyone eye me like that.”
“If you weren’t so pretty, people would look at you less.”