“Ah! what a fine thing for you to say, Monsieur Bertrand! How nice it is to love a person like that!”
“Does it surprise you? did you think that Monsieur Auguste didn’t deserve to be loved so well?”
“I don’t say that, monsieur; far from it. Another glass, Monsieur Bertrand?”
“With pleasure, mamzelle.”
Denise was delighted to hear him talk of Auguste; and as the wine made him very communicative, he went on; for when he was talking about his benefactor, it was the same as with his campaigns—there was no way of stopping him.
“Yes, my pretty child, Monsieur Auguste’s a fine fellow—a rake, a lady-killer, fickle and dissipated, it’s true; but those things don’t touch the real man.”
“What, monsieur! he’s all that? Why, it’s very wicked to be a rake and fickle. And you said such fine things about him just now!”
“Have I said any ill of him, my girl? Don’t you know that young men must sow their wild oats? But I trust that with my advice—Corbleu! if Schtrack knew of this wine—And when it’s so hot, it makes you thirsty as the devil.”
“I believe, monsieur, that while Monsieur Auguste was talking to me in Madame Destival’s courtyard, you whispered in my ear: ‘Look out for yourself!’”
“It’s possible, my child, quite possible.—Look you, Mamzelle Denise, you’re a pretty girl——”