for you, and I am going into Villers-Cotterets today, we will take the measure of your finger, and I will get Monsieur Dugué, the goldsmith there, to alter it for us.”
The smile returned to Agnelette’s face and her tears were dried up at once. She put out her little hand; Thibault took it between his own, turned it over and looked at it, first on the back and then on the palm, and stooping, kissed it.
“Oh!” said Agnelette, “you should not kiss my hand, Monsieur Thibault, it is not pretty enough.”
“Give me something else then to kiss.” And Agnelette lifted her face that he might kiss her on the forehead.
“And now,” she said joyously, and with childish eagerness, “let me see the ring.”
Thibault drew off the ring, and laughing, tried to put it on Agnelette’s thumb; but, to his great astonishment, he could not get it over the joint. “Well, well,” he exclaimed, “who would ever have thought such a thing?”
Agnelette began to laugh. “It is funny, isn’t it!” she said.
Then Thibault tried to pass it over the first finger, but with the same result as when he put it on the thumb. He next tried the middle finger, but the ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as if fearing to sully this virgin hand; then the third finger, the same on which he wore it himself, but it was equally impossible to get it on. And as he made these vain attempts to fit the ring, Thibault felt Agnelette’s hand trembling more and more violently within his own, while the sweat fell from his own brow, as if he were engaged in the most arduous work; there was something diabolic at the bottom of it, as he knew quite well. At last he