“Oh! I pluck them every morning, aunt.”
“And does the flower always tell you he loves you?”
“When there’s one that doesn’t I question another, and I keep on till I find one that gives me the answer I want.”
“That’s the way girls tell their own fortunes. But look you, my child, it would be much more sensible to forget a man who don’t give you a thought.”
“I can’t do it, aunt.”
“If you should take a husband instead of plucking marguerites, your love would soon pass away, I promise you.”
“No, aunt, I don’t want to marry. Leave me at liberty to think of him and to consult the flowers, and I promise you that I won’t cry any more.”
“As you please, my dear Denise; and if that’s your taste, stay unmarried. But you’re so pretty, and such a figure. Ah! it would be a great pity if you should pass your youth consulting flowers.”
The worthy aunt said no more to Denise on the subject of marriage, and the suitors were dismissed. The villagers indulged in various conjectures concerning the girl’s conduct. The young women laughed at the gallants who had been rejected; the gallants hoped that in time Denise would be less cruel. But time passed and Denise’s determination did not waver.
Mère Fourcy became infirm and her niece waited upon her with the most loving solicitude. Coco, who as he grew up had learned to love his benefactresses as dearly as his goat, strove to make himself useful, and often diverted Denise from her melancholy by his childish prattle. She loved to watch and to fondle the child whom Auguste had loved; she had him taught all that could be taught him in the village; she guided his heart into the paths of virtue, for she wished him to do credit to his benefactor.