hands. "There, tell me now if this is not cruel!" cried she; "no matter
what I say or what I do, you remain still unhappy; it is to be too wicked,
and by far too egotistical also. One would say there was no one but you who
suffered."

"Alas, what misery is mine!" cried Germain, with, despair. "You love me,
when I am no longer worthy of you!"

"No longer worthy of me? There is no good sense in what you say now. It is
as if I had said formerly, that I was not worthy of your friendship,
because I had been in prison; for, after all, I have also been a prisoner;
am I any less an honest girl?"

"But you were sent to prison because you were a poor abandoned child, while
I--what a difference!"

"In fine, as to the prison, we have nothing to reproach ourselves for. It
is rather I who am presumptuous; for in my situation I ought only to think
of marrying some workman. I am a foundling: I possess nothing but my little
chamber and my good courage; yet I come boldly and propose to you to take
me for a wife."

"Alas! formerly this had been the dream, the happiness of my life! but
now--I, under the weight of an infamous accusation, I should abuse your
admirable generosity--your pity, which carries you away, perhaps! no--no!"

"But," cried Rigolette, with impatience, "I tell you, it is not pity, it is
love. I only think of you! I sleep no more--I eat no more. Your sad and
melancholy looks follow me everywhere. Is that pity? Now, when you speak to
me, your voice, your look, go to my heart. There are a thousand things in