We met again in the harness-room in the evening, as before.
"Well, Joseph?"
"Ah! it is you, Célestine!"
"Why don't you speak to me any more? You seem to shun me."
"Shun you? I? Oh! heavens!"
"Yes, since that famous morning."
"Don't talk of that, Célestine; you have too bad ideas."
And he sadly wagged his head.
"Come, Joseph, you know that I do that for fun. Would I love you, if you had committed such a crime? My little Joseph" . . .
"Yes, yes. You are trying to wheedle me. It is not well."
"And when are we to start? I cannot live here any longer."
"Not directly. We must wait awhile."
"But why?"
"Because . . . that cannot be done at once."
A little piqued, I said in a tone of slight anger:
"It is not nice of you. You evidently are in no hurry for me."
"I?" cried Joseph, with ardent grimaces. "Why, I am crazy over you."
"Well, then, let us start."
But he was obstinate, refusing to explain further.
"No, no; that cannot be done yet."
