“She isn’t going to get out!” repeated Auguste to himself, as he stood by the door. “Poor thing! she isn’t coming to the inn to dine, which ordinarily indicates obligatory economy.”
“Coming to dinner, lieutenant?” inquired Bertrand, who had climbed down from his seat on the box, and was awaiting Auguste at the inn door.
“Yes, yes, here I am.”
“Have you left anything in the diligence?”
“No, but I would have liked——”
“Do you hear that? they say that the passengers must hurry.”
Bertrand came forward to see what was keeping his master by the diligence; he spied the young lady and muttered:
“Morbleu! another! I might have known that there was a petticoat at the bottom of it! Remember, lieutenant—we left Paris in order to be good, to reform.”
“You are right, my friend,” said Auguste; and he turned regretfully away from the vehicle and followed Bertrand to the inn.
The travellers’ dinner was soon at an end; urged on by the driver, they all returned to their places, the old lady carrying her dessert. Auguste gazed with renewed interest at the young woman, who probably had dined on a modest loaf, and he placed his knees against hers once more with greater respect than before, because the idea of misfortunes puts thoughts of pleasure to silence.