word to you about Paris? You have a sweetheart, of course? Or you have several? Perhaps you have too many?”
But my good great grandfather had no sweetheart in Paris, although he was a sergeant. He always wanted one with a blond, sunny face, and that kind he could not find here. The eyes of Parisian women are twinkling stars shining over secret street corners; they always lure one around a comer. My great, great grandfather always walked straight ahead.
That he said to her, but of course in the better language which my honorable great grandfather spoke.
“Good Heaven!” declared Blanchefleure, “how could one make up to you? Perhaps I should try if I were not married.”
Poor Primus lifted his astonished grey eyes and looked at her, in order the better to penetrate the meaning behind the silk and ostrich feathers, glittering clothes, and gilded furniture. He looked deep and earnestly into the charming, tender little face, so expressive of unmixed joy, in the gay, opera setting from which it looked out.
He began to feel sad because she was married. She really resembled a sunbeam.
“Can’t you say anything at all?” begged Blanchefleure.
“Krüzigts Herrgöttli!” stammered poor Primus.
“You say you might have tried it with me?”
“What?” she questioned delighted.
Then he spoke French again. “You ought not to play any jokes on a poor fellow like me.”
