“Oh, no, aunt! I think that I did wrong rather, for he hasn’t been here since then, and he went away without bidding us good-bye.”
“Well, well, now she’s crying again! But, my child, what good does this love do you?”
“None at all, aunt.”
“Monsieur Auguste wouldn’t have married a poor village girl. Now he’s gone away, and we shan’t ever see him again probably.”
“Do you mean to say that he may not come back? Won’t he want to see—Coco again? He will come back, aunt; ah! I am still hopeful.”
“Even if he should, remember that he’s a gentleman, and used to fine ladies; while you—Well! what are you looking at that flower so for?”
“It told me that Auguste loved me dearly.”
“Who told you so?”
“This marguerite, aunt.”
“Pluck another one to-morrow, my dear, and it will tell you just the opposite.”