“It was your lovely eyes that turned my head.”
“Ah! you’re going to begin again. Go along, quick, or they’ll eat the cream cheese without you.”
“I should be very sorry for that, as it was you who made it.”
“The road up the hill—then turn to the left—then the grass-grown road. Adieu, monsieur.”
“One more kiss, Denise.”
“No, no; that sort of thing shouldn’t be repeated too often; you’d soon get tired of it.”
And Denise hurried down the hill toward the village. Auguste followed her with his eyes for a long while, saying to himself:
“She’s very pretty, and she’s bright too! What a pity that she doesn’t live in Paris!—What am I saying? If she were in Paris, she’d look like all the rest; it’s because she’s a milkmaid that her face and her wit have impressed me.—Well, I will follow the directions she gave me, and arrive as soon as possible. I am sure that they are impatient for me to come; poor Bertrand won’t know what to say, and Madame Destival will pout at me—how she will pout!—And great heaven! these scratches! how in the devil am I to explain them? Faith, I scratched myself picking nuts. It’s a pity that nuts don’t have thorns. But no matter, they may think what they choose.”
So Auguste decided to resume his journey; but he cast another glance at Denise’s village, and murmured as he walked away: