Auguste had never been in such high spirits as at that meal: he caressed the child, he joked with Mère Fourcy, he forced Bertrand to drink with him; it seemed to him that the fresh, pure air of the fields set him free from all the trammels of society, and that he breathed more freely, happy to be rid for a moment of etiquette and gallantry.
“Bertrand,” said the young man, filling his glass; “I really believe that I am happier here than at a sumptuously-laden table, surrounded by pretty women covered with jewels, and served by an army of footmen.”
“Here, monsieur, you see nobody but people who care for you, and who will not ruin you by compliments and courtesies.”
“Well, Bertrand, when the others have ruined me, this is where I will come to seek consolation for the ingratitude of men and the perfidy of women. But you say nothing, Denise; does that mean that you don’t approve of my plan?”
“No, monsieur,” the girl replied under her breath; and her aunt exclaimed:
“Come, speak up, my child; you don’t eat and you don’t talk! Something’s the matter, sure.”
“It’s a fact,” said Auguste, “that you don’t seem to share our merriment. What is the matter, Denise?”
“The matter, monsieur? Why, nothing, I give you my word.”
“And I give you my word that something is the matter!” cried Mère Fourcy. “Pardi! for some time she’s been all turned round; she don’t like dancing, she don’t like games, she don’t know what she does like. But I know all about it, I tell you; when a girl gets to be like that, it means that she’s thinking about something.—Well, you needn’t blush for that, my child; you’re a good girl, as everyone knows; but that don’t keep you from thinking about getting married, and I hope monsieur’ll do us the honor to come to the wedding.”
“Yes, most assuredly,” said Auguste, with a slight grimace; “yes, Denise, I shall be delighted to be a witness of your happiness; and as you love someone—You didn’t tell me that you had made your choice.”