“I do not remember my grandfather, monsieur.”
No, perhaps not; it was thirty-seven years ago, and old Couturier was an old man then. Perhaps not.
“Papa, can’t you see she’s going to the well to fetch water? Why don’t you offer to help her?”
“Eh? No, I’m not going. Let her fetch it herself!”
“Papa!”
They walked on in silence till well out of hearing, when Louise exclaimed:
“Really, papa, I can’t understand you. So ungallant! It’s not like you. You ought to have offered to fetch the water for her, even if she refused.”
“Eh? Oh, no! I wasn’t going. Very dangerous. You might fall down and sprain your ankle. Oh, no! Or she might fall down, or something. It’s very slippery up there by the well. You’re not going to get me to do it. Let her fetch her own water. Oh, no! no, no, no, no!”
“Louise dear,” remarked Madame Roget. “Let us hurry. Your father is most queer. I always warn him, but it is no good. If he sleeps in the afternoon he always gets an indisposition.”