WHY MIGNON WENT TO MARKET
and looked into my eyes, an expression of shrewd inquiry adding a new set of wrinkles to her gentle face. “Maybe you know, monsieur?”
“No, it’s all news to me. I am glad for her sake, anyhow, whoever did it. Was it news to Mignon?”
“When?”
“Why this morning when she went to market?”
“Yes, of course it was news to her. I, myself, only knew it last night, and I wouldn’t tell her; she would have betrayed herself in her joy. So when the market people stayed so long—and I did all I could to make them stay”—here her small bead eyes were pinched tight in merriment—“I said there was nothing for your dinner and we must have a fish and that Mignon might better go for it. Watch her when she returns: her face will tell you whether she has seen him or not. Now give me the box, monsieur, and thank you for helping me. Listen! There she comes; I hear her singing.”
And so did the whole court-yard, and she kept on singing, her basket on her arm, her face in full sunlight, until she espied Leà. Then down
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