“Yes, aunt.”
“Well, my dear, there’s no law against it! and if it ain’t one of the fellows that’s offered himself, why, never mind, so long as he’s an honest man and will make you happy; for he loves you dearly too, no doubt?”
“No, aunt, he doesn’t love me at all; he doesn’t give me a thought.”
“Jarni! I’ll go and tear his eyes out! Do you mean to say he’s forgotten you, or deceived you? The idea of my Denise loving him, and him not being too happy to marry her!”
“But he has never spoken of marrying me, aunt.”
“Then he’s a deceiver, is he, a rake?”
“No, aunt; but he’s—it’s that gentleman from Paris.”
“Monsieur Dalville?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“O mon Dieu! what on earth are you thinking about, Denise? You’re in love with a fine gentleman from Paris, a man in the best society, a man who would never look at a peasant girl!”