This question was addressed to Denise, who blushed as she replied:
“What did you say, madame?”
“You’re infernally stupid!” cried Virginie; “the idea of asking this child such a question, as if she was old enough to—Why, she hasn’t begun to think of such things.”
“Look you, my dear, I don’t know her ekthact age. Bethideth, I’ve got a thithter who wath a mother at thirteen.”
“Is she a Creole, then?”
“Yeth, a Creole from the Pont-aux-Choux.”
Luckily Mère Fourcy was in the cellar at that moment, so that she did not hear the colloquy between the two ladies. Denise longed to learn something about Auguste, but she dared not take the liberty to ask Virginie; she was afraid that that young woman would divine her profound interest in him, and the poor child would have been terribly abashed to have those fine ladies of Paris, both of whom she believed to be friends of Auguste, know her heart’s secret. To that sweet child love was all in all; she was very far from suspecting that to her two visitors it was a very small matter.
While Denise was preparing the repast, Virginie insisted upon helping Mère Fourcy to set the table, which the old woman would not allow; and during the contest between the peasant and the Parisian, a bottle slipped from under the arm of the former and fell at Cézarine’s feet, where it broke and spattered her dress.
“O Dieu! my merino is all thpotted!” she cried; “what am I going to do? I haven’t got another.”
“You can wear your velvet,” said Virginie, motioning to her to be careful what she said. Cézarine, engrossed by her dress, paid no heed but continued to complain.