"Why, you know, yesterday, when I saw your name on the ticket, I shouted for joy, and I said: 'What! that gentleman who spoke to me is the one who writes the plays I like so much and go to see so often!'--Oh! I tell you, I was pleased then, and that's why I came right here last night: I remembered your address, and I asked if it was really you that lived in this house; and the concierge said _yes_, and I told him I'd come again to-morrow, at noon. Well! does that make you angry? you don't say anything." "No; it doesn't make me angry. But I was thinking." "I say, monsieur, do you know I'm mad over your plays? If I should go mad over you too----" "There's no danger of that." "What's that? there's no danger? What makes you say: 'There's no danger'? Perhaps you don't know that I take fire very quickly, I do!" That young woman was decidedly original. She said whatever came into her head, without beating about the bush. I liked that frankness, in which there was something like artlessness. Mademoiselle Rosette was neither stupid, nor pretentious, nor prudish. She was a perfect little phoenix, was that grisette. I began by kissing her; she defended herself feebly, or, rather, she allowed herself to be kissed without too much fuss; but when I attempted to go further, she defended herself very stoutly, crying: "I said: 'Not to-day!'--So, no nonsense; it's a waste of time!" "Well, when, then?" "Oh! we'll see; we've got time enough. Do you like me?" "What a question! Many other men must like you, for you know well enough that you're as pretty as a peach." "Oh, yes! I know that; people tell me so every day." "Lovers?" "Lovers and flatterers and chance acquaintances--what do I know? I can't go out without being followed, and it's sickening!" "Come, Mademoiselle Rosette, tell me frankly: have you had many--lovers?" "Lovers! I should think not! No, I've never had but one." "That's very modest! And you loved him dearly, I suppose?" "Why, yes." "Why did you separate?" She looked down at the floor, heaved a profound sigh, and murmured: "Alas! he died, my poor Léon!" "Oh! forgive me for reminding you of so sad a loss." "Yes; he died--a little more than a year ago." "How old are you?" "Twenty. They've wanted to marry me off seventeen times already; but I won't have it; I haven't any taste for marriage. I am right, ain't I?" "If you have no inclination for marriage, you will certainly do quite as well to remain free." "Free, that's it! What fun it is to do just what one wants to do! In the first place, I should make a husband very unhappy! And in the second place, how can I marry, now? I don't choose to deceive anyone, and I certainly wouldn't hold myself out for something that I'm not any more." "You are right, mademoiselle; you shouldn't have any secrets from the man you bind yourself to; but all young ladies aren't like you." "They're wrong, then. I must go now; I shall get a scolding."