"Really, Nicette, I do not deserve so much friendship--if you knew me
better!"
"Oh! I know you well enough by all that you have done for me."
"Are you happy now?"
"Yes, monsieur; I can't be more so."
The tone in which she said that, and the melancholy expression of her
face, gave me much food for thought.
"You seem to me much changed, Nicette."
"How, monsieur?"
"You are pale, and a little thinner than you were."
"But I am not sick."
"Perhaps this smell of flowers----"
"Oh! I've been used to that a long time."
"I miss in your manner that light-heartedness and vivacity that I
noticed at the time of our first meeting."
"Oh! a person can't be always the same."
"Still, if you have nothing to distress you----"
"No, monsieur, no, I haven't anything."
"Your eyes tell me the contrary. Dear Nicette, you have been crying."
"No, monsieur; and even if I had--why, sometimes one cries without
knowing why, and without being unhappy."
We said nothing more. I did not choose to question her further, for I
thought that I could guess what caused her distress. She did not look at
me again; doubtless she was afraid that I would read her eyes. She was
pensive and silent. Nor could I find anything to say. Her sadness had
infected my heart. But the silence had a charm which we both enjoyed.
However, I thought that I ought to try to divert her thoughts, and at
the same time turn my own mind from reflections that were too hazardous.
I went to the table and looked at the paper and the writing.
"You write well already, Nicette."
"Not any too well yet, monsieur; but I hope, with time----"
"Do you still take lessons?"
"No, I haven't any teacher now; he said things to me that I didn't like;
he didn't want to give me the word I wanted for a copy; he always made
me write: _Commencement, commonly, exactly_; and I didn't see why I
couldn't learn just as well by writing _Dorsan_ as _commonly_, although
it isn't so long. That made him angry, so I sent him away; I can get
along without him. I know how to write the small letters too."
"Let me see."
"Oh! my hand would tremble before you, monsieur."
"Why so? I will give you a lesson."
"Will you, really?"
"Why, yes; to be sure."
She seated herself at the table; I placed a chair close beside hers, put
my right arm about her, and guided her hand with mine; my face touched
her hair; her whole body was against mine; I inhaled her sweet breath,
and I could count the beating of her heart. Ah! what pleasure that
lesson afforded me! Unconsciously, without premeditation, I made her
write _I love you_ again and again. My hand trembled as violently as the
hand I was guiding. But a tear fell from her eyes. The pen dropped from
our hands. I have no idea how it happened; but Nicette's pretty face was
hidden against my breast, her two arms were about me, and mine pressed
her fondly to my heart. At that moment I felt that even if Madame de
Marsan, or any other woman, were present, I would not put Nicette's arms
away.
We had been a long while in that position and did not think of changing
it. Nicette was happy, and I--I must confess it--enjoyed a pleasure that
I had never known before, a pleasure of which I had no conception,
undisturbed by any desire for which I need blush. But, engrossed as I
was by the present, I could not answer for the future; another caress
might kindle a conflagration.
There came a loud knock at the door of the shop. Nicette started from my
arms, and I looked at her with some disquietude.
"Who can have come to see you so late? You told me that you had no
acquaintances."
"I don't know who it is; I don't expect anybody!"
Her eyes reassured me; they could not lie! But the knocking was
repeated, and we distinguished these words:
"Open the door, open quick, Mamzelle Nicette! your mother's very sick
and wants to see you."
Nicette ran to the door and recognized the daughter of one of Madame
Jérôme's neighbors. The girl told her that her mother had had an
apoplectic attack as the result of a violent quarrel with her daughter
Fanchon; and feeling very ill, she longed to see the child she had so
unjustly turned out of doors. Nicette flew about the shop; in an instant
she had taken off her apron and put on her cap.
"Adieu, adieu, Monsieur Dorsan!" she said, in a trembling voice, and
with eyes filled with tears; "my mother is sick and I must forget
everything."
We left the shop; she took the little girl's arm and dragged her away;
the child could hardly keep pace with her. I soon lost sight of them.
Sweet girl! she possessed all the virtues, and I loved her better than I
thought, more dearly than I had ever loved. The most convincing proof
that I really loved her was that I had thus far respected her innocence;
but I felt that I must avoid going to see her at night; to be alone with
her would be too dangerous. If it had not been for that knocking--I do
not know what might have happened.
I decided to return to Madame de Marsan, so as to turn my thoughts from
Nicette; I must give my brain occupation, in order to allow my heart to
become calmer. By that means I should at least provide myself with a
pardonable motive for my new follies.