We dined in the kitchen: the two friends were seated on the benches,
one on each side the long table, and their guest at the end, between
them, on a three-legged stool. What a dinner! how charming the
remembrance! While we can enjoy, at so small an expense, such pure,
such true delights, why should we be solicitous for others? Never
did those petite soupers, so celebrated in Paris, equal this; I do not
only say for real pleasure and gayety, but even for sensuality.
After dinner, we were economical; instead of drinking the coffee
we had reserved at breakfast, we kept it for an afternoon collation,
with cream, and some cakes they had brought with them. To keep our
appetites in play, we went into the orchard, meaning to finish our
dessert with cherries. I got into a tree, throwing them down
bunches, from which they returned the stones through the branches. One
time, Mademoiselle Galley, holding out her apron, and drawing back her
head, stood so fair, and I took such good aim, that I dropped a
bunch into her bosom. On her laughing, I said to myself, "Why are
not my lips cherries? how gladly would I throw them there likewise!"
Thus the day passed with the greatest freedom, yet with the utmost
decency; not a single equivocal word, not one attempt at
double-meaning pleasantry; yet this delicacy was not affected, we only
performed the parts our hearts dictated; in short, my modesty, some
will say my folly, was such that the greatest familiarity that escaped
me was once kissing the hand of Mademoiselle Galley; it is true, the
attending circumstances helped to stamp a value on this trifling
favor; we were alone, I was embarrassed, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and my lips, instead of uttering words, were pressed on her
hand, which she drew gently back after the salute, without any
appearance of displeasure.
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