“Tell him we’re here, Monsieur Bertrand, and I’ll bet he’ll come right away. We won’t keep him long.”
“Yes, I’ll tell him that. But wait; I’ll be back in a minute.”
Bertrand left the salon, being careful to close the door behind him. Denise examined the fine furniture and pictures with which the room was embellished, and Coco lay on a couch. But the moments passed and nobody came. The girl’s heart sank; she had secretly hoped that Auguste would be glad to see her, and the lack of haste which he displayed in coming to her, made her fear that she had flattered herself too much.
She dared not leave the room, or even open a door. Coco had fallen asleep; the girl seated herself in a corner, refrained from making the slightest noise, in order not to wake the child, and gazed ruefully at the basket containing the gifts she had brought to the fine city gentleman.
At last Bertrand returned with a dissatisfied air, and said in an undertone:
“You are tired of waiting, aren’t you? Thunder and guns! I can understand that; but it ain’t my fault, mamzelle, because my orders before everything! I don’t know anything but my orders.”
“Isn’t Monsieur Auguste at home?”
“Oh, yes! he’s at home, but he can’t see you yet, because his orders—”
“But, Monsieur Bertrand, it isn’t polite not to come and speak to people; with us, we don’t leave our friends all alone like this.”
“Oh! it’s different in Paris, mamzelle. I know what my lieutenant promised to do to me if I disturbed him when he’s—busy; and I can’t disobey orders.”