"Yes, on you; on you alone."
"And how is that?"
A moment of silence follows, during which, straightening up and twisting his pointed beard, he seeks to envelop me in a seductive fluid.
"Come," he says, suddenly, "let us go straight to the point. Let us speak squarely,—soldier-fashion. Do you wish to take Rose's place?"
I was expecting the attack. I had seen it coming from the depth of his eyes. It does not surprise me. I receive it with a serious and unmoved expression.
"And the wills, Captain?"
"Oh! I tear them up."
I object:
"But I do not know how to cook."
"Oh! I will do the cooking; I will make my bed; I will do everything."
He becomes gallant, sprightly; his eye sparkles. He leans towards the hedge, stretching out his neck. His eyes become bloodshot. And in a lower voice he says:
"If you came to me, Célestine,—well" . . .
"Well, what?"
"Well, the Lanlaires would die of rage. Ah! that's an idea!"
I lapse into silence, and pretend to be profoundly dreaming. The captain becomes impatient. He digs the heels of his shoes into the sandy path.
