"Now," said Alice, brusquely, but with sweet and gentle firmness,
"go to your fiancee, go to pretty and good Adrienne, and ask her
to be your partenaire. Refresh your conscience with a noble
draught of duty and make that dear little girl overflow with joy.
Go, Rene de Ronville."
In making over what she said into English, the translation turns
out to be but a sonorous paraphrase. Her French was of that mixed
creole sort, a blending of linguistic elegance and patois,
impossible to imitate. Like herself it was beautiful, crude,
fascinating, and something in it impressed itself as
unimpeachable, despite the broken and incongruous diction. Rene
felt his soul cowering, even slinking; but he fairly maintained a
good face, and went away without saying another word.
"Ciel, ciel, how beautiful she is!" he thought, as he walked along
the narrow street in the dreamy sunshine. "But she is not for me,
not for me."
He shook himself and tried to be cheerful. In fact he hummed a
Creole ditty, something about
"La belle Jeanette, qu' a brise mon coeur."
Days passed, and at last the time of the great event arrived. It
was a frosty night, clear, sparkling with stars, a keen breath
cutting down from the northwest. M. Roussillon, Madame Roussillon,
Alice and Lieutenant Beverley went together to the river house,
whither they had been preceded by almost the entire population of
Vincennes.
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