With a more slimy smile, she continues: "Not that the girls amuse themselves any less. Oh! heavens, no! On the contrary. You never go out in the evening; but, if you were to take a walk at nine o'clock under the chestnut trees, you would see. Everywhere couples on the benches, kissing and caressing. It is a very pretty spectacle. Oh! to me, you know, love is so pretty. I perfectly understand that one cannot live without love. Yes, but it is very annoying also to have a lot of children tagging at one's heels. Well, they have none now; they have no more. And it is to Mme. Gouin that they owe that. Just a disagreeable moment to pass through; after all, it is not like having to swallow the sea. In your place I would not hesitate. A pretty girl like you, so distinguished, and who must have so good a figure,--a child would be a murder." "Reassure yourself. I have no desire to have one." "Yes, I know; nobody has any desire to have one. Only ... But, tell me, has Monsieur never made advances to you?" "Why, no." "That is astonishing, for he has a great reputation for that. Not even that morning in the garden?" "I assure you." Mam'zelle Rose shakes her head. "You are unwilling to say anything. You distrust me. Well, that is your business. Only, we know what we know." Peasants pass in the road, and salute Mam'zelle Rose, with respect. "How do you do, Mam'zelle Rose? And the captain,--is he well?" "Very well, thank you. He is drawing some wine just now." _Bourgeois_ pass in the road, and salute Mam'zelle Rose with respect. "How do you do, Mam'zelle Rose? And the captain?" "Always vigorous, thank you; you are very good." The priest passes in the road, with a slow step, wagging his head. At the sight of Rose, he bows, smiles, closes his breviary, and stops. "Ah! it is you, my dear child? And the captain?" "Thank you, Father, things are going very nicely. The captain is busy in the cellar." "So much the better, so much the better! I hope that he has planted some beautiful flowers, and that next year, on Corpus Christi day, we shall have again a superb street altar." "You may be sure of it, Father." "All my friendships to the captain, my child." "And the same to you, Father." And, as he goes away, his breviary again open: "_Au revoir! au revoir!_ All that a parish needs is parishioners like you." And I go back, a little sad, a little discouraged, a little hateful, leaving this abominable Rose to enjoy her triumph, saluted by all, respected by all, fat, happy, hideously happy. Soon, I am sure, the priest will place her in a niche in his church, between two candles, with a nimbus of gold about her, like a saint. IX _October 25._