Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part two

upon which mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read

eagerly. As she read, her face brightened.

“Malicorne,” cried she, after having read it, “in truth, you

are a good lad.”

“What for, mademoiselle?”

“Because you might have been paid for this commission, and

you have not.” And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to

put the clerk out of countenance; but Malicorne sustained

the attack bravely.

“I do not understand you,” said he. It was now Montalais who

was disconcerted in her turn. “I have declared my sentiments

to you,” continued Malicorne. “You have told me three times,

laughing all the while, that you did not love me; you have

embraced me once without laughing, and that is all I want.”

“All?” said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone

through which wounded pride was visible.

“Absolutely all, mademoiselle,” replied Malicorne.

“Ah!” — And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as

the young man might have expected gratitude. He shook his

head quietly.

“Listen, Montalais,” said he, without heeding whether that

familiarity pleased his mistress or not; “let us not dispute

about it.”

“And why not?”

“Because during the year which I have known you, you might

have had me turned out of doors twenty times if I did not

please you.”

“Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned

out?”

“Because I had been sufficiently impertinent for that.”

“Oh, that, — yes, that’s true.”

“You see plainly that you are forced to avow it,” said

Malicorne.

“Monsieur Malicorne!”

“Don’t let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has

not been without cause.”

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“It is not, at least, because I love you,” cried Montalais.

“Granted. I will even say that, at this moment, I am certain

that you hate me.”

“Oh, you have never spoken so truly.”

“Well, on my part I detest you.”

“Ah! I take the act.”

“Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find

you have a harsh voice, and your face is too often distorted

with anger. At this moment you would allow yourself to be

thrown out of that window rather than allow me to kiss the

tip of your finger; I would precipitate myself from the top

of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. But,

in five minutes, you will love me, and I shall adore you.

Oh, it is just so.”

“I doubt it.”

“And I swear it.”

“Coxcomb!”

“And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of

me, Aure, and I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I

make you laugh; when it suits me to be loving, I look at

you. I have given you a commission of lady of honor which

you wished for; you will give me, presently, something I

wish for.”

“I will?”

“Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare

to you that I wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease.”

“You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going to rejoice

at getting this commission, and thus you quench my joy.”

“Good; there is no time lost, — you will rejoice when I am

gone.”

“Go, then; and after —- ”

“So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice.”

“What is it?”

“Resume your good-humor, — you are ugly when you pout.”

“Coarse!”

“Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are

about it.”

“Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!”

“Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!”

The young man leant with his elbow upon the window-frame;

Montalais took a book and opened it. Malicorne stood up,

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brushed his hat with his sleeve; smoothed down his black

doublet, — Montalais, though pretending to read, looked at

him out of the corner of her eye.

“Good!” cried she, furious, “he has assumed his respectful

air — and he will pout for a week.”

“A fortnight, mademoiselle,” said Malicorne, bowing.

Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. “Monster!” said

she; “oh! that I were a man!”

“What would you do to me?”