Part 6 (1/2)

”Isn't it rather risky to promise me that?”

She laughed as she glanced at him, and he, too, looked at her as though he could not take his eyes away from the pretty, fresh young face turned towards him. He was paying no attention to the road, which was in a very bad state, until suddenly the right wheel went into a rut, and the gig gave a jerk, which sent Denyse on to him. She clung to his arm with all her might, and they remained an instant like this until they were able to regain their balance. The wheel, then, in some way or another, got clear of the deep rut in which it had been caught, and the horse went on again at a quick pace as before.

”That's right!” said Bijou, laughing heartily. ”I certainly thought we should be upset.”

”It was as near a shave as possible,” he answered gravely.

She loosened the grasp of her small fingers, which had been pressed tightly on her cousin's shoulder.

”Is it really over?” she asked. ”You are not going to begin again, I hope?”

M. de Rueille did not answer. He was looking at her with an absent-minded, troubled expression in his eyes.

”Yes; but, instead of looking at me, do look before you,” she went on.

”We shall get into another rut directly, you'll see.”

”Oh, no! oh, no!” he murmured, as though he were in some dream.

”I'm sure we shall be late for dinner,” said Bijou; ”and you know grandmamma does not altogether like that.”

Rueille touched the pony's back with the whip, and the animal, springing forward, jerked the little carriage violently, and then started off at a mad pace.

This time Bijou looked stupefied.

”What's that for?” she asked. ”Whatever is the matter with you to-day?

Just now you almost upset us, and now you touch Colonel with the whip, and you ought not to let him even guess that you have one; you have made him take fright,” and then, seeing that the horse was calming down, she added, ”or nearly so; you are not yourself at all.”

”No,” he answered mechanically, ”I am not myself.”

At the pony's first plunge Denyse had taken M. de Rueille's arm again.

It was not that she was in the least afraid, but she was perched on a seat which was too high for her, so that she could not keep her balance, and, consequently, she tried to hold on to something firm.

Without loosing the arm on to which she was hanging, she leant towards her cousin, and asked, with evident interest:

”Not yourself? What is the matter? Are you ill?”

”Ill? No! at least, not exactly.”

”What do you mean by _not exactly_? Oh, but you must not be ill. We have to work at our play this evening, and if you do not set about it, all of you, and in earnest, why, it will never be finished for the race-ball.”

”I don't care a hang about the play, and--I--if I were you--”

He stopped abruptly, evidently embarra.s.sed.

”Well?” asked Bijou, ”what is it? You were going to say something.”

”Yes,” he stammered out, scarcely knowing how to put what he wanted to say. ”I was going to remark that the design Jean has made for your--for Hebe's dress--”

”Well?”