"You /are/ fine," he said, after a
pause, using the curious word, "godaine," a superlative in the dialect
of those regions used by lovers to express the combination of fine
clothes and beauty.
"I daren't touch you," added Marche-a-Terre, putting out his big hand
nevertheless, as if to weigh the gold chain which hung round her neck
and below her waist.
"You had better not, Pierre," replied Francine, inspired by the
instinct which makes a woman despotic when not oppressed. She drew
back haughtily, after enjoying the Chouan's surprise; but she
compensated for the harshness of her words by the softness of her
glance, saying, as she once more approached him: "Pierre, that lady
was talking to you about my young mistress, wasn't she?"
Marche-a-Terre was silent; his face struggled, like the dawn, between
clouds and light. He looked in turn at Francine, at the whip he had
dropped, and at the chain, which seemed to have as powerful an
attraction for him as the Breton girl herself. Then, as if to put a
stop to his own uneasiness, he picked up his whip and still kept
silence.
"Well, it is easy to see that that lady told you to kill my mistress,"
resumed Francine, who knew the faithful discretion of the peasant, and
wished to relieve his scruples.
Marche-a-Terre lowered his head significantly. To the Cottin girl that
was answer enough.
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