Bertrand was shaking the water from his eyes and running his fingers through his hair when he heard a merry laugh coming from the direction of the house. The shutters of the bower-window had been pushed open, and a brown head was catching the morning sunlight above the trees. It was Tiphaïne herself, sleek and fresh as a ripe peach, her eyes sparkling with delight and mischief.
“Bertrand! Bertrand! is that you?”
Bertrand was mopping his face with a corner of his surcoat. He put his wet hair back from his forehead and went and stood under the window, laughing.
“I was frightening the fish with my face,” he said.
“Hist!”
The child gestured to him from above.
“Madame is still asleep. I crept out of the truckle-bed and dressed. Bertrand, do you think I could jump out of the window?”
The lad was blushing a little, and showing his teeth in a broad smile. He darted away amid the apple-trees, and came back carrying a rough ladder that was kept slung against the garden wall. Planting it, he climbed up till he was on a level with the window.
“What mischief, Bertrand!”
The lad smiled because Tiphaïne was smiling.