“Ah, Thibault, pray hush! what if she were to overhear us!”
“How is it possible that she can overhear us; where do you imagine her to be, unless she is able to make herself invisible, or to change herself into a butterfly or a flower?”
“Never mind, Thibault, you keep quiet.”
“Your mistress of the mill is hard-hearted then, is she? and takes no pity on your despair, poor fellow?” was Thibault’s rejoinder; but his words, though seemingly expressive of great commiseration, had a shade of satisfaction and amusement in them.
“Hard-hearted! I should think so indeed!” said Landry. “In the beginning, I was foolish enough to fancy that she did not repulse my love. … All day long I was devouring her with my eyes, and now and then, she too would fix her eyes on me, and after looking at me a while, would smile. … Alas! my dear Thibault, what happiness those looks and smiles were to me! … Ah! why did I not content myself with them?”
“Well, there it is,” said Thibault philosophically. “Man is so insatiable.”
“Alas! yes; I forgot that I had to do with someone above me in position, and I spoke. Then Madame Polet flew into a great rage; called me an insolent beggar, and threatened to turn me out of doors the very next week.”
“Phew!” said Thibault, “and how long ago is that?”
“Nearly three weeks.”