"I don't understand, aunt." "That makes a difference, my dear; I'll cut it short. You're old enough to get married, and there's several chances offered. First of all, big Fanfan Jolivet, and then neighbor Mauflard's nephew, and tall Claude-Jean-Pierre-Nicolas Lathuille, who's just inherited his father's estate; there's lots more too that would like you, but those three are the best fixed. They're good boys and hard workers. It's your business to choose which one you want for a husband." Denise had turned pale and shown great embarrassment during her aunt's speech; but she glanced again at the remains of her marguerite and replied in a very low tone: "I don't want any one of them, aunt." "What do you say, my child?" "I say that--that I don't want to marry." "You don't want to marry? Nonsense! You're joking when you say that! As if girls mustn't marry! I tell you, on the contrary, marriage will do you good. For a long time now you haven't been yourself, you don't laugh or sing any more. A husband, my child, makes you sing, brings back your spirits, and--Great heaven! you're crying, my poor Denise! Do you think I mean to make you feel bad? No, no! I'll send all your suitors to the devil first. My poor child crying! I don't want you to do that. Come, tell me right away what makes you cry." "To have to refuse you, aunt." "The idea of crying for that! Do you think I'll ever drive you to do what you don't want to do?" "Oh, no! you're so kind to me, aunt!" "But if you cry, I'll scold you. You don't want any of these husbands, so we won't say any more about it, my child. But, jarni! something's the matter with you, all the same. A girl don't sigh all day thinking about flies." "Oh, aunt!" "Tell me what the trouble is, my child." "I don't dare to." "I want you to dare to. You've got a pain in your heart, that's sure." "Oh! I am very silly! I know that." "You, silly! you, the cleverest, the smartest, the shrewdest girl in the world! Anyway, my dear, a body don't cry because she's silly. It can't be you're in love with anybody, are you?" Denise heaved a profound sigh, and replied at last, lowering her eyes: "Yes, aunt." "Well, my dear, there's no law against it! and if it ain't one of the fellows that's offered himself, why, never mind, so long as he's an honest man and will make you happy; for he loves you dearly too, no doubt?" "No, aunt, he doesn't love me at all; he doesn't give me a thought." "Jarni! I'll go and tear his eyes out! Do you mean to say he's forgotten you, or deceived you? The idea of my Denise loving him, and him not being too happy to marry her!" "But he has never spoken of marrying me, aunt." "Then he's a deceiver, is he, a rake?" "No, aunt; but he's--it's that gentleman from Paris." "Monsieur Dalville?" "Yes, aunt." "O mon Dieu! what on earth are you thinking about, Denise? You're in love with a fine gentleman from Paris, a man in the best society, a man who would never look at a peasant girl!"