“Here I am, my friend,” she said, as she entered the room; and she hung about Auguste with as much embarrassment as she had shown in front of the cookshop. “Here I am; I’ve been rather long, but—but—it was because I met someone who is much better than a chicken.”
“You met someone?”
“Yes—someone who—someone——”
Before Virginie could think of what she wanted to say, Bertrand, unable to contain himself any longer, opened the door, rushed to Auguste, and threw his arms about him, crying:
“It was me, sacrebleu! it was me! But I can’t stay hidden any longer; I must embrace him!”
Bertrand could not make up his mind for some minutes to release his hold of Auguste, and Virginie exclaimed reproachfully:
“There! you see! he couldn’t wait till I motioned to him; he’ll make Auguste worse!”
“No,” said the convalescent, “no, happiness never does that! My poor fellow! so you have come back!”
“And you could believe that I abandoned you!” said Bertrand, taking Auguste’s hand. “You doubted the love of your old comrade, your faithful servant!—I admit that my hurried departure must have surprised you; but when you know!”
“You are here, Bertrand, and everything is forgotten!”