Denise was lost in thought and did not reply.
“Have you forgotten how to write, my child?” continued Mère Fourcy.
“Oh! no, aunt; but I can’t write well enough to write to a gentleman from Paris.”
“In that case, my dear, get that old man to write to him, who’s just come here to live, and who writes all the nurses’ letters. He handles his pen fine, I tell you! He’ll write a sentence two pages long to tell you your child’s had the colic, or needs a new cap. Or else ask neighbor Mauflard to do you the favor; he’s an old schoolmaster, and he ought to write like a Barême’s grammar!”
Denise was still silent; but after a moment she said, lowering her eyes:
“Don’t you think, aunt, that it would be better to go to Paris and speak to the gentleman? Wouldn’t it be more polite than writing?”
“You’re right again, my child; and there’s a little stage that starts for Paris at eight o’clock every morning and brings you back at four.”
“And then, aunt, I’ve been to Paris twice, you know, and nothing ever happened to me.”
“All right, my child, go ahead; nothing ever happens to anybody unless they want it to.”
“And I’ll take Coco with me, shan’t I, aunt?”