“I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eugénie.”
“Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly intimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see you are smiling.”
“If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden partition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight security.”
“Come, what did she say?”
“She told me that she loved no one,” said Valentine; “that she disliked the idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an independent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father might lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her friend, Mademoiselle Louise d’Armilly.”
“Ah, you see—”
“Well, what does that prove?” asked Valentine.
“Nothing,” replied Maximilian.
“Then why did you smile?”
“Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself, Valentine.”
“Do you want me to go away?”
“Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which I wish to speak.”
“True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass together.”
“Ma foi!” said Maximilian, in consternation.