“Tho much the better; I don’t like anything but innothenthe, now I know that rathcal Théodore is falth to me.”
“Great heaven! are you going to talk about your Théodore all the way? that will be amusing!—By the way, there’s one difficulty—I haven’t a sou.”
“Oh! I’ve got enough for both. Wait till I count. I’ve got a hundred and fifteen thouth.”
“With that sum we can go to the Mississippi. Put on your Sunday hat and your home-raised cashmere; and off we go.”
Mademoiselle Cézarine put on her bird-of-paradise hat, which the sun had faded to a pale yellow, and the shawl, once of amaranthine hue, in which the flowers had become so blended with the background that it was difficult to distinguish them. But when one indulges frequently in grand passions, one sometimes makes sacrifices, and Mademoiselle Cézarine preferred one glance from the man of her choice to the diamonds of a Russian prince; therein she differed essentially from Mademoiselle Virginie.
The young women took their seats in the stage; there were no other passengers except two old peasants, at whom they made faces all the way, because they detected an unpleasant odor about them. At last they arrived at Montfermeil, and, Virginie having inquired where Denise lived, they were directed to the path where the girl discovered them.
“My dear love,” said Cézarine, “I don’t thee the ruthtic roof that thelterth your young friend, and I am beginning to be doothid hungry.”
“Wait, it must be close by.”
“What a lovely morning! If that ungrateful Théodore had only come with uth!”
“Yes, to eat up your hundred and fifteen sous in one meal! Dieu! what a fool you are to go wild like this over a man who ruins you! Let’s go on a little farther.”