"You're infernally stupid!" cried Virginie; "the idea of asking this child such a question, as if she was old enough to--Why, she hasn't begun to think of such things." "Look you, my dear, I don't know her ekthact age. Bethideth, I've got a thithter who wath a mother at thirteen." "Is she a Creole, then?" "Yeth, a Creole from the Pont-aux-Choux." Luckily Mère Fourcy was in the cellar at that moment, so that she did not hear the colloquy between the two ladies. Denise longed to learn something about Auguste, but she dared not take the liberty to ask Virginie; she was afraid that that young woman would divine her profound interest in him, and the poor child would have been terribly abashed to have those fine ladies of Paris, both of whom she believed to be friends of Auguste, know her heart's secret. To that sweet child love was all in all; she was very far from suspecting that to her two visitors it was a very small matter. While Denise was preparing the repast, Virginie insisted upon helping Mère Fourcy to set the table, which the old woman would not allow; and during the contest between the peasant and the Parisian, a bottle slipped from under the arm of the former and fell at Cézarine's feet, where it broke and spattered her dress. "O Dieu! my merino is all thpotted!" she cried; "what am I going to do? I haven't got another." "You can wear your velvet," said Virginie, motioning to her to be careful what she said. Cézarine, engrossed by her dress, paid no heed but continued to complain. "It'th jutht the dreth that ith motht becoming to me; I wore it when I captivated Théodore." "That's her husband, who's in the army--he's a general.--Come, cousin, you have made enough fuss over your dress. You have plenty of others, I should say." "I thertainly did have all thothe I put up the thpout----" "Up the spout, Mère Fourcy, means cutting them up into towels. You see, we are all so changeable in Paris--we have to have a new dress every week; we throw our money out of the window! A wicked place that Paris is! Happy the people who live in villages! Ah! the country! trees and animals and rye bread--that's what I call happiness! I hope to end by buying a little château or a cottage--it's all one to me, so long as it's in the country. As for Denise, whom I love as if I was her mother, if there's one thing I'd advise her to do, it's to stay here and not go to Paris again. However, I fancy she don't care much about it; and the way Monsieur Dalville received her the last time--why, it made me frantic! And to think that the poor child had brought him fresh eggs and such a fine cake!" Denise, returning with a huge soup-kettle full to the brim, overheard Virginie's last words and halted behind Cézarine, motioning to Virginie to say nothing to her aunt. Virginie, being accustomed to dissemble, understood the girl's signs and continued, trying to repair her blunder: