“Thanks, Denise, thanks! I——”
“Pray, come, monsieur; I am waiting!” said a woman’s voice impatiently in the reception-room—a voice which strongly resembled Madame de la Thomassinière’s.
“Adieu, adieu! I will see you again,” said Auguste to Denise.
And, giving her no time to reply, he hastily left the room, closing the door behind him, and went out of the house with a young woman enveloped in a great shawl and covered with a thick veil, who shrank out of sight on the back seat of the cabriolet.
Denise stood perfectly still, basket in hand; but great tears rolled from her eyes, and the basket would have dropped, had not Virginie, who had drawn near, saved it as she caught the girl in her arms.
“Well, well! what on earth’s the matter with you, my dear? On my word! she’s really crying! Mon Dieu! is she going to faint?—Bring me something, Bertrand!—The idea of being unhappy just for a man, my dear girl! God bless me! they ain’t worth the trouble! If you knew ‘em as well as I do! I admit that Monsieur Auguste wasn’t very polite, to hardly answer you and not even thank you!—Ah! her color’s coming back a little.—It really scared me to see you like that!”
Denise took out her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and called Coco.
“Come, my dear, let’s go,” she said; “we must go back to the village.”
“Ain’t my kind friend coming with us?” said Coco, as he took Denise’s hand.
“Oh, no! he hasn’t even time to speak to us. Come, Coco, let’s go. We must be at the stage office at four.”