“You mean Monsieur Auguste Dalville?”
“Ah! is his name Auguste Dalville?”
“How is it that you don’t know his name and do know mine?”
“Because he called you by name twice before me, in the courtyard, and I haven’t forgotten your name.”
“You are very kind, mademoiselle.”
“So Monsieur Auguste Dalville didn’t come with you to-day?”
“I beg pardon, but he’s close by! he’ll be here very soon.”
“He is here, he is coming!” cried Denise, jumping for joy. But she added, to conceal her emotion: “You see, when you came alone, I thought that you wasn’t with him any more.”
“Do you suppose I’ll ever leave my master, my benefactor, a man who has done everything for me, and who still calls me his friend? Ten thousand bayonets! No, my dear child, that can never be; I’m attached to Monsieur Auguste, just as my sword hilt is to the blade; nothing can ever separate me from him, except himself. But I don’t worry about that; although I do make bold to scold him a little, he knows old Bertrand’s heart.”
Denise wiped away the tears of emotion which the old soldier’s devotion brought to her eyes; then she cried, taking Bertrand’s hand and pressing it in hers: