head, some part of which she was obliged to leave exposed, in spite of
herself, to defend others, but at last she managed to release herself,
blushing and angry. "You are very unmannerly, Monsieur," she said, "and
I am sorry I listened to you."

I took her hand in some confusion, and stammered out: "I beg your
pardon. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. I have offended you; I have
acted like a brute! Do not be angry with me for what I have done. If you
knew ..." I vainly sought for some excuse, and in a few moments she
said: "There is nothing for me to know, Monsieur." But I had found
something to say, and I cried: "Mademoiselle, I love you!"

She was really surprised, and raised her eyes to look at me, and I went
on: "Yes, Mademoiselle, and pray listen to me. I do not know Morin, and
I do not care anything about him. It does not matter to me the least if
he is committed for trial and locked up meanwhile. I saw you here last
year, and I was so taken with you, that the thought of you has never
left me since, and it does not matter to me whether you believe me or
not. I thought you adorable, and the remembrance of you took such a hold
on me that I longed to see you again, and so I made use of that fool
Morin as a pretext, and here I am. Circumstances have made me exceed the
due limits of respect, and I can only beg you to pardon me."

She read the truth in my looks, and was ready to smile again; then she
murmured; "You humbug!" But I raised my hand, and said in a sincere
voice, (and I really believe that I was sincere): "I swear to you that
I am speaking the truth," and she replied quite simply: "Really?"

We were alone, quite alone, as Rivet and her uncle had disappeared in a
sidewalk, and I made her a real declaration of love, while I squeezed