“Rather as you please.”
“Call me Adèle—I shall like that.”
“Adèle it is.”
“Madame Florimont!” muttered Bertrand with a shrug; “that’s a stage name—she got that in the wings of some theatre.”
“My name is Auguste, my dear Adèle; for it is right that you should know who I am.”
“Oh! mon Dieu! it’s all one to me!”
“I see that you think more of the person than of the title, and that you judge people by their faces; if that method never deceives you, I congratulate you. But it is still light and the weather is fine; the best thing for us to do before supper, I think, is to take a walk. Will you come with us, Bertrand?”
“No, lieutenant, I have no desire to walk.”
Auguste walked away with the emotional Adèle. They traversed the pretty little town of Avallon in every direction. Auguste commented upon what he saw and the young woman invariably agreed with him; so that he finally decided that a woman who can only assent to everything that is said without making any observations on her own account, is rather monotonous company. But Madame Florimont had very pretty eyes, and it was not long since she had first fixed them upon Auguste; so that, when he had discoursed for some time without obtaining anything but insignificant replies, he played with Adèle with his eyes, whereupon she said in pantomime the sweetest things imaginable.
Only in front of the shops did the young woman make any remarks of her own motion. She stopped to gaze at a shawl and heaved a profound sigh.