‘It is too late to say that.’
‘But it is true.’
‘Ah, I will not beliefe it! You are triste—the journey make you triste and fatiguée—to-morrow you will smile again upon your own Auguste.’
‘Pray don’t talk nonsense,’ answered the young lady. ‘I liked you very well when you gave me my lessons, and last night in my anger, in my wickedness, I thought I would come with you, because I wished to be revenged on Madame and Mademoiselle Blanche. But now I have repented, Monsieur. I was a little fool, and I will beg their pardon. They have been very kind to me. I was ungrateful. I will return.’
All this in an impetuous stream, half soliloquy, half entreaty. In her passion and excitement the girl looks very lovely, and the Frenchman gazes at her in growing admiration. Then a thought seems to strike him, and he looks at her slyly and smiles.
‘Why are you laughing, Monsieur?’ she cries.
‘I was thinking, mignonne, how ridiculous you would look if you returned. Ah, Dieu, how they would laugh!’ This is a move in the right direction. The young lady cannot bear ridicule, and she frowns at the very thought of it. For some minutes she seems plunged in bitter reflection; then she speaks again.
‘No, I am not afraid,’ she cries; ‘I do not fear any but Madame, and when I have apologised she will take my part. Oh, why did I come with you? why did I think of running away?’
‘Because you love me, mon ange!’
‘Love you, Monsieur Belleisle? I like you better than Herr Bunsen, because he is always cross and stupid and you are good-tempered. And I thought you handsome. Well, I did not know my mind. I will not marry you—the thought is ridiculous. You are thirty years old, and I do not like Frenchmen.’