"Oh, very good game, your honour; this very day he sent me a beautiful hare. I did not know what to do with it; but at last I put it on the spit."
"The hare wasn't all for you, perhaps. But, listen to me, Babet—I know the whole business—my son is in love with some shepherdess or other—and I don't think she is far from here."
"I don't understand you, sir," said the old lady—a true confidante, though seventy years of age.
"You understand me so perfectly," said the Baron, "that you are evidently ashamed of your behaviour. But do not be uneasy, there is no great harm in it—a mere childish frolic—only tell me where the girl is?"
"Ah, your honour," cried Babet, who saw there was no use for further pretence—"she's an angel—she is—a perfect angel!"
"Where does the angel come from, Babet?" enquired the Baron, "she has not come fresh from heaven, has she?"
"I know nothing more about her, your honour; but I pray morning and night that you may have no one else for a daughter."
"We shall see—the two lovers are above, are not they?"
"Why should I conceal it? Yes, your honour, you may go up stairs at once. An innocent love like theirs never bolts the door."
When the Baron was half-way up the stair, he stopped short, on seeing the two lovers sitting close to each other, the one weeping, and the other trying to console her. There was such an air of infantine candour about them both, and both seemed so miserable, that the hard heart of sixty-three was nearly touched.