Mam'zelle Blandine, according to what people say, has succeeded in getting you to accept something, anyhow."
"Ah, Claudie," he said, in a heartbroken tone, which, however, did not disarm her.
"That is enough! Let's break off this conversation, my child. You are becoming bad-natured. But I am not angry with you! Adieu!"
His cold, fixed look, strangely chaste, in which was concentrated one knows not what faith, what resolution, dismissed her better than any gesture.
She went out, slamming the doors in a storm of indignation.
"Well," said Landrillon, who was on the look out for her at the entrance of the park. "What did I tell you. He does not love thee, and never will he love thee."
"But what kind of man is this? Am I not beautiful, the most beautiful of all of them? Whence comes so much coldness?"
"My goodness, that's easy enough to explain. No need to search far … He is—how shall I put it?—a kiddie after the style of St. Olfgar … No, I'm slandering the great saint."
"What dost thou mean?"
