“I didn’t say that, Monsieur Bertrand.”
“No? then he did wrong to come.”
“I don’t say that I do love him either.”
“So much the better for you, Mamzelle Denise; for that would be laying up trouble for yourself.”
“Whoever heard of a village girl loving a fine gentleman from the city?”
“I don’t know whether it’s possible, but I know that it sometimes happens.”
“Don’t worry, Monsieur Bertrand, I shall never have any feeling but friendship for Monsieur Auguste; and if it’s the dread of my loving him that keeps him from coming to the village, why, tell him he can come as often as he likes. Denise knows only too well that she isn’t capable of winning the heart of a city gentleman; she won’t ever forget it.”
“Bravo! that’s what I call talking, my dear child. I drink to your virtue,—and, as you see, I leave no heel-taps.—But what’s the matter, pray? are you crying?”
“No, Monsieur Bertrand, no; you see, I should be very sorry to—But it’s all over now. Monsieur Auguste won’t be afraid any more to come to see his little protégé. He won’t let two months go by again, without coming.”
“Oh! that depends. At Paris, you know, Mamzelle Denise, my master don’t have a minute to himself; he’s always at some party or some entertainment! People fight to see who shall have him! He gets ten invitations a day.”