As I felt that my trick had produced its effect on him, I did not press the matter. But every day I pretended that I had met the little laundress and that I had spoken to her about him, so that in the end he believed me, and sent her ardent and earnest kisses. Now it happened that one morning, on my way to the boarding school, I really came across her. I accosted her without hesitation, as if I had known her for the last ten years. “Good-day, mademoiselle. Are you quite well?” “Very well, monsieur, thank you.” “Will you have a cigarette?” “Oh! not in the street.” “You can smoke it at home.” “In that case, I will.” “Let me tell you, mademoiselle, there's something you don't know.” “What is that, monsieur?” “The old gentleman—my old professor, I mean—” “Pere Piquedent?” “Yes, Pere Piquedent. So you know his name?” “Faith, I do! What of that?” “Well, he is in love with you!” She burst out laughing wildly, and exclaimed: “You are only fooling.” “Oh! no, I am not fooling! He keeps talking of you all through the lesson. I bet that he'll marry you!” She ceased laughing. The idea of marriage makes every girl serious. Then she repeated, with an incredulous air: “This is humbug!” “I swear to you, it's true.” She picked up her basket which she had laid down at her feet. “Well, we'll see,” she said. And she went away. Presently when I had reached the boarding school, I took Pere Piquedent aside, and said: “You must write to her; she is infatuated with you.” And he wrote a long letter, tenderly affectionate, full of phrases and circumlocutions, metaphors and similes, philosophy and academic gallantry; and I took on myself the responsibility of delivering it to the young woman. She read it with gravity, with emotion; then she murmured: “How well he writes! It is easy to see he has got education! Does he really mean to marry me?” I replied intrepidly: “Faith, he has lost his head about you!” “Then he must invite me to dinner on Sunday at the Ile des Fleurs.” I promised that she should be invited. Pere Piquedent was much touched by everything I told him about her. I added: “She loves you, Monsieur Piquedent, and I believe her to be a decent girl. It is not right to lead her on and then abandon her.” He replied in a firm tone: “I hope I, too, am a decent man, my friend.” I confess I had at the time no plan. I was playing a practical joke a schoolboy joke, nothing more. I had been aware of the simplicity of the old usher, his innocence and his weakness. I amused myself without asking myself how it would turn out. I was eighteen, and I had been for a long time looked upon at the lycee as a sly practical joker.