But, at a sign from the gentleman, the driver has started off, and they are soon leaving the village at full gallop. To comfort her, Monsieur slips his hand round her waist. He is not prepared for the result, which came in the shape of a sharp slap in the face from the little gloved hand.
‘How dare you? I will not be pulled about, and I will go back to Madame. If you are a gentleman you will take me back at once.’
Monsieur rubs his cheek and tries to smile, but there is an angry light in his eyes nevertheless.
‘You are cruel, and I—ah, how I love you! Have you not promised to be my little wife? Mine own Madeline!’
He is about to embrace her again, but the look in her face deters him.
‘I was angry with Madame because I thought her cruel and unjust. She made me mad, and so I listened to you. Drive me back, Monsieur, and I will like you very much. I will take all the blame upon myself—only drive me back.’
‘Do not speak so,’ is the reply. ‘We love each other—we will be happy—ah, so happy—-with one another. Madeline! my bride!’
‘I have changed my mind. I will not marry you, Monsieur Belleisle!’
‘Ah ciel, you do not mean what you say!’
‘I do mean it. Why should I marry you? I do not like you. I shall hate you soon.’