"Now," said she, "come and sit down by me, and let's have a talk."
Prudence was right: the answer that she had brought to Marguerite had
put her into a good humour.
"Will you forgive me for my bad temper tonight?" she said, taking my
hand.
"I am ready to forgive you as often as you like."
"And you love me?"
"Madly."
"In spite of my bad disposition?"
"In spite of all."
"You swear it?"
"Yes," I said in a whisper.
Nanine entered, carrying plates, a cold chicken, a bottle of claret, and
some strawberries.
"I haven't had any punch made," said Nanine; "claret is better for you.
Isn't it, sir?"
"Certainly," I replied, still under the excitement of Marguerite's last
words, my eyes fixed ardently upon her.
"Good," said she; "put it all on the little table, and draw it up to the
bed; we will help ourselves. This is the third night you have sat up,
and you must be in want of sleep. Go to bed. I don't want anything
more."
"Shall I lock the door?"
"I should think so! And above all, tell them not to admit anybody before
midday."