“It’th jutht the dreth that ith motht becoming to me; I wore it when I captivated Théodore.”
“That’s her husband, who’s in the army—he’s a general.—Come, cousin, you have made enough fuss over your dress. You have plenty of others, I should say.”
“I thertainly did have all thothe I put up the thpout——”
“Up the spout, Mère Fourcy, means cutting them up into towels. You see, we are all so changeable in Paris—we have to have a new dress every week; we throw our money out of the window! A wicked place that Paris is! Happy the people who live in villages! Ah! the country! trees and animals and rye bread—that’s what I call happiness! I hope to end by buying a little château or a cottage—it’s all one to me, so long as it’s in the country. As for Denise, whom I love as if I was her mother, if there’s one thing I’d advise her to do, it’s to stay here and not go to Paris again. However, I fancy she don’t care much about it; and the way Monsieur Dalville received her the last time—why, it made me frantic! And to think that the poor child had brought him fresh eggs and such a fine cake!”
Denise, returning with a huge soup-kettle full to the brim, overheard Virginie’s last words and halted behind Cézarine, motioning to Virginie to say nothing to her aunt. Virginie, being accustomed to dissemble, understood the girl’s signs and continued, trying to repair her blunder:
“After all, the young man is very excusable, for you see, Madame Fourcy, there are people in Paris who don’t like cake; it isn’t as it is in the village, where it takes the place of salad. And then, Auguste is a little thoughtless; but his heart’s in the right place! yes, he has a very kind heart! I know him better than anybody. Besides, at this time above all others, I shouldn’t think of speaking ill of him; and although he’s ruined——”
“Ruined!” cried Denise; and in her emotion the girl dropped the kettle, whose contents completed the disfigurement of Cézarine’s gown.
“Great God! but I’m unlucky to-day!” she cried, as she gazed at her garment; “how do you expect me to go back to Parith, and play Andromaque on Monday, in thith dreth?”
Mère Fourcy lost herself in apologies; but Denise paid no heed to the accident she had caused; she ran to Virginie, exclaiming:
“Ruined! Monsieur Auguste ruined! Oh! mon Dieu! madame, how did it happen, pray?”