“Oh! that ne’er-do-well will let you cool your heels here till to-morrow morning.”
“Who, madame?”
“Why, Auguste, to be sure! The cake is fine, and the butter delicious. It reminds me of my childhood; I used to eat cake like this every night; I bought it for four sous at the little shop on Boulevard Saint-Denis, where there’s always a line waiting; it’s famous for this cake.—To go back, I was saying, my dear, that Dalville is undoubtedly with some hussy or other, and that’s why we can’t speak to him.”
“What! do you think so, madame?”
“Oh! I’m sure of it! Do you suppose I don’t know all about it? Bertrand’s embarrassment, and the concierge’s orders. In fact, it’s a most surprising thing that he let you come up.”
“It was Monsieur Bertrand who made him let me in; if it hadn’t been for him, I should have been sent away.”
“For my part, it’s all a matter of indifference to me; I look on Auguste as my brother now. But you are pale, my child! Don’t you feel well?”
“Yes, madame, I’m all right.”
“How lucky you are, my child, to be virtuous, and not to know anything about the passions! Always retain this innocence.—Bertrand, can’t you see that this cake is choking me? For heaven’s sake, give me something to drink, and this child will take something too.”
“No, thank you, madame.”