“Will you marry me, monsieur?”
“Marry you, Denise?”
“Yes; formerly I wouldn’t have dared to hope for such a thing, for you were very rich, and you couldn’t have taken a village girl for your wife. But you have lost the fortune which kept you in fashionable society. You say every day that you no longer care for the fine ladies, the coquettes, who deceived you.—Now, if you want me, I am yours. I haven’t a great fortune, but I have enough for us two; and I will never deceive you!”
Auguste was deeply moved by Denise’s affecting offer; but he contented himself with pressing her hand and heaving a profound sigh. She impatiently awaited his reply; his silence made her think that her proposal had offended him; she walked away from him, and, unable to restrain her tears, faltered:
“I made you angry by proposing that you should marry me. Forgive me, monsieur; I forgot that I am only a peasant. I thought that you loved me.”
“Ah! I love you, Denise, more than I ever loved! my feeling for you is a hundred times sweeter and fonder than the passions which have led me into so many follies. You are only a peasant, you say! but your virtues and your good qualities make you the equal of a great lady, even though you had not in addition such lovely features, such charming ways, and a melting voice that goes to one’s very heart!”
“You love me! Oh! how happy I am! Then you will take me for your wife?”
Auguste gazed tenderly at her, and said at last:
“You shall have my reply to-morrow, Denise.”
“To-morrow! Why not at once? Do you need to reflect about it?”