“Yes, yes, madame,” said the young tradeswoman; and she retreated, sorely embarrassed, to the back of her shop, while Virginie, light as a feather, tripped gayly homeward, her chicken under her arm, saying to herself:
“I knew that I’d get one! I never lose hope, I don’t!”
However, the chicken had not yet reached Auguste. At a street corner, Virginie, who probably was looking at her feet and nothing else, was roughly jostled by a man who knocked the chicken to the ground.
“You infernal idiot!” cried Virginie, stooping to pick up the chicken. But her voice caught the ears of the man who had jostled her, and who had simply apologized and kept on his way. He stopped, retraced his steps and exclaimed in his turn:
“Why—yes! ten thousand bayonets! it’s Mamzelle Virginie! Morbleu! perhaps she’ll be able to tell me something about him.”
“Hallo! it’s Bertrand!” said Virginie, as she recognized the ex-corporal; “it’s good old Ber—But what am I saying! he’s a villain, an ungrateful, hardhearted wretch, and I don’t like him any more. Let me carry my chicken—don’t hold me, monsieur.”
“Whether you like me or not, mademoiselle, isn’t the question just at this moment. One word, if you please: have you seen him, do you know where he is, what’s become of him?”
“Of whom?”
“Morbleu! my lieutenant, Monsieur Auguste.”
“On my word! do I know where he is? What a question! when he’s been living in my room a fortnight!”