“I—I lied that time, monsieur.”
“How so, Denise?”
“You know, that time in my aunt’s garden, when I told you that I had a sweetheart, it was because Monsieur Bertrand had told me that you didn’t come to the village for fear of falling in love with me; and I longed so to see you that that was why I said I didn’t love you.”
“Dear Denise! is it possible?” cried Auguste, throwing his arms about her.
“Yes, that’s the truth; and since then I’ve been awfully unhappy because I told you that; for you didn’t come again, and you thought I loved somebody else.”
Auguste gazed lovingly at the girl; but soon his brow grew dark; he fixed his eyes on the ground and seemed to be meditating deeply. Amazed by his silence and his depression, she drew nearer to him and said timidly:
“Are you angry because I love you?”
“Ah! Denise, it might once have made me perfectly happy—but now——”
“Well—now?”
Auguste made no reply; and after a moment she asked him: