"It is not bad," thus giving himself time to think of something ingenious to say to me.
He took from his teeth the bits of string, tied them at the top of the prop, and, with legs spread apart, and his two palms resting on his hips, with a knowing look, and frankly obscene eyes, he cried:
"I'll bet, Celestine, that you led a gay life in Paris?
Say, now, didn't you?"
I was not expecting this. And I had a great desire to laugh.
But I lowered my eyes modestly, with an offended air, and, trying to blush, as was proper under the circumstances, I exclaimed, in a tone of reproach:
"Oh!
Monsieur!"
"Well, what?" he insisted; "a pretty girl like you,—with such eyes!
Oh! yes, you must have had a gay time.
And so much the better.
For my part, I am for amusement; yes, I am for love."
Monsieur was becoming strangely animated.
And, on his robust, muscular person I recognized the most evident signs of amorous exaltation.
He was on fire; desire was flaming in his eyes. I deemed it my duty to pour a good shower of cold water on this fire.
In a very dry tone, and at the same time very loftily, I said:
"Monsieur is mistaken.
Monsieur thinks that he is speaking to his other chambermaids.
Monsieur must know, however, that I am a good girl."
And with great dignity, to show exactly to what extent this outrage had offended me, I added:
"It will serve Monsieur right, if I go to complain to Madame directly."
And I made a pretence of starting.
Monsieur quickly grasped me by the arm.
"No, no," he stammered.
How did I ever say all that without bursting? How did I ever succeed in burying in my throat the laugh that was ringing there? Really, I don't know.
Monsieur was prodigiously ridiculous. Livid now, with mouth wide open, his whole person bearing a two-fold expression of annoyance and fear, he remained silent, digging into his neck with his nails.
Near us an old pear tree twisted its pyramid of branches, eaten by lichens and mosses. A few pears hung within reach of his hand.
A magpie was chattering ironically at the top of a neighboring chestnut tree.
Crouching behind the border of box, the cat was pawing at a bumble-bee.
The silence was becoming more and more painful for Monsieur. At last, after efforts that were almost sorrowful,—efforts that brought grotesque grimaces to his lips,—Monsieur asked:
"Do you like pears, Celestine?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
I did not disarm; I answered in a tone of lofty indifference.
In the fear of being surprised by his wife, he hesitated a few seconds.
And suddenly, like a thieving child, he took a pear from the tree, and gave it to me,—oh! how piteously!
His knees bent, his hand trembled.
"There, Celestine, hide that in your apron.
You never have any in the kitchen, do you?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Well, I will give you some occasionally, because ... because ... I wish you to be happy."
The sincerity and ardor of his desire, his awkwardness, his clumsy gestures, his bewildered words, and also his masculine power, all had a softening effect upon me.
I relaxed my face a little, veiled the severity of my look with a sort of smile, and, half ironically, half coaxingly, I said to him:
"Oh! Monsieur, if Madame were to see you?"
Again he became troubled, but, as we were separated from the house by a thick curtain of chestnut trees, he quickly recovered himself, and, growing more defiant as I became less severe, he exclaimed, with easy gestures:
"Well, what? Madame?
And what of her?
I care nothing for Madame.
I do not intend that she shall annoy me. I have enough of her. I am over my head in Madame."
I declared gravely:
"Monsieur is wrong. Monsieur is not just. Madame is a very amiable woman."