Jacintha hung behind, lowered her eyes, put on a very deferential manner, and thanked Edouard for the kind sentiments he had uttered; but at the same time she took the liberty to warn him against believing the extravagant stories Dard had been telling about her mistress’s poverty.  She said the simple fact was that the baron had contracted debts, and the baroness, being the soul of honor, was living in great economy to pay them off.  Then, as to Dard getting no supper up at Beaurepaire, a complaint that appeared to sting her particularly, she assured him she was alone to blame:  the baroness would be very angry if she knew it.  “But,” said she, “Dard is an egotist.  Perhaps you may have noticed that trait in him.”

“Glimpses of it,” replied Riviere, laughing.

“Monsieur, he is so egotistic that he has not a friend in the world but me.  I forgive him, because I know the reason; he has never had a headache or a heartache in his life.”

Edouard, aged twenty, and a male, did not comprehend this piece of feminine logic one bit:  and, while he puzzled over it in silence, Jacintha went on to say that if she were to fill her egotist’s paunch, she should never know whether he came to Beaurepaire for her, or himself.  “Now, Dard,” she added, “is no beauty, monsieur; why, he is three inches shorter than I am.”

“You are joking! he looks a foot,” said Edouard.

“He is no scholar neither, and I have had to wipe up many a sneer and many a sarcasm on his account; but up to now I have always been able to reply that this five feet one of egotism loves me sincerely; and the moment I doubt this, I give him the sack,—­poor little fellow!”

“In a word,” said Riviere, a little impatiently, “the family at Beaurepaire are not in such straits as he pretends?”

“Monsieur, do I look like one starved?”

“By Jove, no! by Ceres, I mean.”

“Are my young mistresses wan, and thin?”

“Treason! blasphemy! ah, no!  By Venus and Hebe, no!”

Jacintha smiled at this enthusiastic denial, and also because her sex is apt to smile when words are used they do not understand.

“Dard is a fool,” suggested Riviere, by way of general solution.  He added, “And yet, do you know I wish every word he said had been true.”  (Jacintha’s eyes expressed some astonishment.) “Because then you and I would have concerted means to do them kindnesses, secretly; for I see you are no ordinary servant; you love your young mistresses.  Do you not?”

These simple words seemed to touch a grander chord in Jacintha’s nature.

“Love them?” said she, clasping her hands; “ah, sir, do not be offended; but, believe me, it is no small thing to serve an old, old family.  My grandfather lived and died with them; my father was their gamekeeper, and fed to his last from off the poor baron’s plate (and now they have killed him, poor man); my mother died in the house and was buried in the sacred ground near the family chapel.  They put an inscription on her tomb praising her fidelity and probity.  Do you think these things do not sink into the heart of the poor?—­praise on her tomb, and not a word on their own, but just the name, and when each was born and died, you know.  Ah! the pride of the mean is dirt; but the pride of the noble is gold.”