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.