Ten Years Later. Dumas Alexandre

I have been sufficiently impertinent for that.”

      “Oh, that, – yes, that’s true.”

      “You see plainly that you are forced to avow it,” said Malicorne.

      “Monsieur Malicorne!”

      “Don’t let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not been without cause.”

      “It is not, at least, because I love you,” cried Montalais.

      “Granted. I will even say, at this moment, I am certain that you hate me.”

      “Oh, you have never spoken so truly.”

      “Well, on my part, I detest you.”

      “Ah! I take the act.”

      “Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find you have a harsh voice, and your face is too often distorted with anger. At this moment you would allow yourself to be thrown out of that window rather than allow me to kiss the tip of your finger; I would precipitate myself from the top of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. But, in five minutes, you will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh, it is just so.”

      “I doubt it.”

      “And I swear it.”

      “Coxcomb!”

      “And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of me, Aure, and I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I make you laugh; when it suits me to be loving, I look at you. I have given you a commission of lady of honor which you wished for; you will give me, presently, something I wish for.”

      “I will?”

      “Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease.”

      “You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going to rejoice at getting this commission, and thus you quench my joy.”

      “Good; there is no time lost, – you will rejoice when I am gone.”

      “Go, then; and after – ”

      “So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice.”

      “What is it?”

      “Resume your good-humor, – you are ugly when you pout.”

      “Coarse!”

      “Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are about it.”

      “Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!”

      “Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!”

      The young man leant with his elbow upon the window-frame; Montalais took a book and opened it. Malicorne stood up, brushed his hat with his sleeve, smoothed down his black doublet; – Montalais, though pretending to read, looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

      “Good!” cried she, furious; “he has assumed his respectful air – and he will pout for a week.”

      “A fortnight, mademoiselle,” said Malicorne, bowing.

      Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. “Monster!” said she; “oh! that I were a man!”

      “What would you do to me?”

      “I would strangle you.”

      “Ah! very well, then,” said Malicorne; “I believe I begin to desire something.”

      “And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my soul from anger?”

      Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fingers; but, all at once, he let fall his hat, seized the young girl by the shoulders, pulled her towards him, and sealed her mouth with two lips that were very warm, for a man pretending to so much indifference. Aure would have cried out, but the cry was stifled in his kiss. Nervous and, apparently, angry, the young girl pushed Malicorne against the wall.

      “Good!” said Malicorne, philosophically, “that’s enough for six weeks. Adieu, mademoiselle, accept my very humble salutation.” And he made three steps towards the door.

      “Well! no, – you shall not go!” cried Montalais, stamping with her little foot. “Stay where you are! I order you!”

      “You order me?”

      “Yes; am I not mistress?”

      “Of my heart and soul, without doubt.”

      “A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the heart dry.”

      “Beware, Montalais, I know you,” said Malicorne; “you are going to fall in love with your humble servant.”

      “Well, yes!” said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence, rather than with loving abandonment. “Well, yes! for I must thank you at least.”

      “And for what?”

      “For the commission; is it not my whole future?”

      “And mine.”

      Montalais looked at him.

      “It is frightful,” said she, “that one can never guess whether you are speaking seriously or not.”

      “I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris, – you are going there, – we are going there.”

      “And so it was for that motive only you have served me; selfish fellow!”

      “What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.”

      “Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be confessed, a very bad-hearted young man.”

      “Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you take to calling me names again, you know the effect they produce upon me, and I shall adore you.” And so saying, Malicorne drew the young girl a second time towards him. But at that instant a step resounded on the staircase. The young people were so close, that they would have been surprised in the arms of each other, if Montalais had not violently pushed Malicorne, with his back against the door, just then opening. A loud cry, followed by angry reproaches, immediately resounded. It was Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the cry and the angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost crushed her between the wall and the door she was coming in at.

      “It is again that good-for-nothing!” cried the old lady. “Always here!”

      “Ah, madame!” replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; “it is eight long days since I was here.”

      Chapter III. In Which We at Length See the True Heroine of this History

      Appear.

      Behind Madame de Saint-Remy stood Mademoiselle de la Valliere. She heard the explosion of maternal anger, and as she divined the cause of it, she entered the chamber trembling, and perceived the unlucky Malicorne, whose woeful countenance might have softened or set laughing whoever observed it coolly. He had promptly intrenched himself behind a large chair, as if to avoid the first attacks of Madame de Saint-Remy; he had no hopes of prevailing with words, for she spoke louder than he, and without stopping; but he reckoned upon the eloquence of his gestures. The old lady would neither listen to nor see anything; Malicorne had long been one of her antipathies. But her anger was too great not to overflow from Malicorne on his accomplice. Montalais had her turn.

      “And you, mademoiselle; you may be certain I shall inform madame of what is going on in the apartment of one of her ladies of honor?”

      “Oh, dear mother!” cried Mademoiselle de la Valliere, “for mercy’s sake, spare – ”

      “Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not uselessly trouble yourself to intercede for unworthy people; that a young maid of honor like you should be subjected to a bad example is, certes, a misfortune great enough; but that you should sanction it by your indulgence is what I will not allow.”

      “But in truth,” said Montalais, rebelling again, “I do not know under what pretense you treat me thus. I am doing no harm, I suppose?”

      “And