Bijou. Gyp
you often come to Pont-sur-Loire, and you always wear pink."
Ever since she had left off her mourning for her parents, who had died four years ago, Denyse had adopted pink as her only colour for all her dresses. The reason was, she said, because her grandmother preferred seeing her dressed thus. Anyhow, this pink, a very pale, soft shade, like that of the petals of a rose just as it begins to fall, suited her to perfection, as it was almost exactly the same delicate colour as her skin.
She always wore it, and when the weather was cold or gloomy she would put on a long, gathered cloak, which covered her entirely, and on taking this dark wrap off, she would come out, looking as fresh and sweet as a flower, and seem to brighten up everything around her.
Her dresses were always of batiste, muslin, or some soft woollen material, comparatively inexpensive. The greatest luxury to which she treated herself now and again was a taffetas or surah silk. And then, nothing could be more simple than the way these dresses were made—always the same little gathered blouses and straight skirts, and never any trimming whatever, except, perhaps, in the winter, a narrow edging of fur.
"Yes, that's quite true," she said thoughtfully, "I am always in pink. You don't like that?"
"Not like it? I—good heavens!—why, I think it is perfectly charming! I tell you, Bijou, that if I were not an old man, I should make love to you all the time!"
"You are not an old man!"
"Very many thanks! If, however, you do not look upon me as quite an old man—which, by the bye, is certainly debatable—I am at any rate a married man."
"Yes, that's true, and so much the better for you, for there is nothing more stupid and tiresome than men who are always making love."
"Well, then, you must know a terrible number of people who are stupid and tiresome."
"Why?"
"Because everyone makes love to you—more or less!"
"Not at all! Why, just think! I was brought up in the most isolated way, like a veritable savage. When papa and mamma were living, they were always ill, and I was shut up with them, and never saw anyone. It is scarcely four years since I came to live with grandmamma, where I do see people."
"Oh, yes; plenty of them, and no mistake!"
"You speak as though that annoyed you?"
She glanced sideways at Rueille, her eyes shining beneath her drooping eyelids, whilst he replied, with a touch of irritation in his voice in spite of himself:
"Annoyed me, but why should it? Are your affairs any business of mine; have I any voice in the matter of anything that concerns you?"
"Which means that if you had a voice in the matter—?"
"Ah, there would certainly be many changes, and many reforms that I should make."
"For instance?"
"Well, I should not allow you, if I were in your grandmamma's place, to be quite as affable and as ready to welcome everyone; I should want to keep you rather more for myself, and prevent your letting strangers have so much of you."
"Yes," she said, with a pensive expression, "perhaps you are right."
"And all the more so because we shall have you to ourselves for so short a time now."
The large candid eyes, with their sweet expression, were fixed on Paul de Rueille as he continued:
"You will be marrying soon? You will be leaving us?"
Bijou laughed. "How you arrange things. There is no question, as far as I know, of my marriage."
"There is nothing definite—no; at least, I do not think so. But, practically, it is the one subject in question, and grandmamma thinks of nothing else."
"Oh, well, I am not like her then, for I scarcely ever give it a thought." And then she added, turning grave all at once: "Besides, my marriage is very problematical."
"Problematical?"
"Why, yes—in the first place, I should want the man who marries me to love me."
"Oh, well, you can be easy on that score; you will have no difficulty about that."
Her fresh young voice took an almost solemn tone as she continued:
"And then I should want to love him, too."
"Oh, so you will. One always does love one's husband—to begin with," said Rueille carelessly; and then he stopped short, thinking that the words "to begin with" were unnecessary.
Bijou had not understood, however, nor even heard, for she asked:
"What did you say?"
"I said that he will be very happy."
"Who will be happy?"
"The man you love!"
"I hope so. I shall do all I can for that!"
M. de Rueille seemed to be annoyed and irritated. He said, in a disagreeable way, as though he wanted to discourage Denyse in her dreams of the future:
"Yes, but supposing you do not happen to meet with him?"
"Well, then, I shall die an old maid, that's all! But I do not see why I should not meet with him. I do not ask for anything impossible, after all!"
In a mocking tone, and a trifle aggressive, he, asked:
"Would it be very indiscreet to ask you what you expect?"
"Oh, not indiscreet in the slightest degree, for I can only answer just as I have already answered, I should simply want to love him! I do not care at all about money; I neither understand money nor worship it!" She turned towards her cousin, and said, in conclusion, as she looked up into his face: "Now, I'll tell you, I would agree to a marriage like Bertrade's."
"With another husband," he stammered out.
Very simply and naturally, and without the slightest embarrassment, she said, laughing:
"Oh, dear no! No, I think the husband is quite nice."
M. de Rueille did not answer. He could not help feeling some emotion, in spite of himself, at this idea that Bijou might have cared for him. It seemed to him that the evening air was delicious, and never had the setting sun, which was sinking slowly like a ball of flame into the Loire, appeared more brilliant to him. The little gig was so narrow, that, with every oscillation, his elbow touched the young girl's arm, whilst her soft fair hair, escaping from her large straw hat, kept brushing against his cheek, which began to burn.
Bijou noticed his absent-mindedness.
"It seems to me," she said, laughing, "that you are not listening much to the description of my ideal."
"Oh, yes!"
"Oh, no!—by the bye, have we done all the errands?"
She took out of her pocket a long list, which she began to read:
"Ice. Cakes. Fruit. Fish. The Dubuissons. Speak to the butcher. Pink gauze. Mère Rafut. Hat. Pierrot's books. Henry's cartridges (16)."
"What's that?" asked M. de Rueille, who was looking at the list. "Henry has commissioned you to get his cartridges instead of telling me to get them?"
"Yes; the time before last when he asked you, you forgot them; and last time you brought him number twelve cartridges, and his are number sixteen; therefore, he preferred—"
"Ah! I can understand that; but they do take advantage of you—and the children too have taken advantage. 'Balloon for Marcel, pencils for Robert;' Fred is the only one who has not given you any commissions. You need not despair though, he is only three years old; he will begin next year."
"He did not give me any commissions, but I have brought him a picture book—'Puss in Boots.' He adores