“As to that, Cousin Thibault, you will have to drag the heart out of my breast before I tell you.”
“You have told me already.”
“What? I have told you who it is?” cried Landry, staring at Thibault with astonished eyes.
“Certainly you have.”
“Surely you cannot mean it!”
“Did you not say that it would have been better for you to have been dragged under by the mill wheel the first day you entered into the service of Madame Polet, than to have been taken on by her as chief hand? You are unhappy at the mill, and you are in love; therefore, you are in love with the mistress of the mill, and it is this love which is causing your unhappiness.”
“Ah, Thibault, pray hush! what if she were to overhear us!”
“How is it possible that she can overhear us; where do you imagine her to be, unless she is able to make herself invisible, or to change herself into a butterfly or a flower?”
“Never mind, Thibault, you keep quiet.”
“Your mistress of the mill is hard-hearted then, is she? and takes no pity on your despair, poor fellow?” was Thibault’s rejoinder; but his words, though seemingly expressive of great commiseration, had a shade of satisfaction and amusement in them.