An honest and generous love, which the misfortunes of Germain had
called into existence.
"I assure you," answered the prisoner, with a sigh, "that I conceal nothing
from you!"
"Fie, the false man!" cried Rigolette, stamping her foot. "Well, you see
this large cravat of white wool that I brought for you?" and she took it
from her basket. "To punish you for your dissimulation, you shall not have
it. I knit it for you. I said to myself, it must be so cold, so damp, in
those large prison yards, that at least he will be protected nicely with
this; he is so chilly."
"How, you?"
"Yes, you are liable to cold," said Rigolette, interrupting him. "Perhaps I
recollect it well! that did not, however, prevent you hindering me (out of
delicacy) from putting any more wood in my stove when you passed the
evening with me. Oh, I have a good memory!"
"And I also-only too good!" said Germain, in an agitated voice, passing his
hand over his eyes.
"Come, now, there you are becoming sad again, although I forbid it."
"How; do you wish me not to be touched, even to tears, when I think of all
that you have done for me since my detention here? And this new attention,
is it not charming? Do I not know that you encroach upon your nights to
make time to come and see me? On my account you impose upon yourself extra
labor."
"That is it! Pity me then, quickly, because every two or three days I take
a fine walk to come and visit my friends, I, who adore a walk.
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