“Then we’ll go away.”
“Wait a little longer; perhaps it won’t be very long.”
At that moment they heard sounds in the reception-room, and Mademoiselle Virginie entered the salon.
“Here I am!” she cried; “I snapped my fingers at your orders, I did! That old villain of a Schtrack didn’t want to let me come up. ‘Monsir isn’t in,’ he says. But I came on all the same.—I say! who’s this little farmer’s wench? She’s not so bad-looking! Is it on her account that Monsieur Auguste closes his door to his friends?”
Denise stared at Virginie in amazement, while Bertrand motioned to the latter to be quiet, saying in an irritated tone:
“It seems to me, mademoiselle, that when a concierge says that you can’t come up, you should respect his orders.”
“Go to the deuce with your orders! He told me there wasn’t anyone here, and he lied, you see. Bertrand, who on earth is this rustic beauty?”
“She’s a young girl from the country.”
“Pardi! I can see for myself that she don’t live on Rue Vivienne. What a sly fox he is!—What is she here for? Is it her young one asleep on the couch? The devil! he’s quite a big boy already!”
“This is a most respectable young woman, mademoiselle; she came to bid Monsieur Dalville good-day, and brought this child, that he thinks a great deal of. There isn’t the slightest harm in that.”