Very naturally I reflected:
"He is right, after all. If he has stolen the silver service, he cannot go away now, or set up in business. Perhaps it would awaken suspicion. Some time must be allowed to pass, so that this mysterious affair may be forgotten."
Another evening I proposed:
"Listen, my little Joseph; I know a way of leaving here. We could get up a quarrel with Madame, and force her to discharge us both."
But he protested sharply.
"No, no," he exclaimed. "None of that, Célestine. No, indeed! For my part, I love my masters. They are good masters. We must part with them on good terms. We must go away from here like worthy people, like serious people. The masters must be sorry to have us leave; they must weep to see us go."
With a sad gravity, in which I perceived no trace of irony, he declared:
"I, you know, shall be greatly grieved at leaving here. I have been here for fifteen years. One gets attached to a house in that time. And you, Célestine, will it give you no pain?"
"Oh! no," I shouted, laughing.
"It is not well; it is not well. One should love one's masters. Masters are masters. And let me give you some advice. Be very nice, very gentle, very devoted; do your work well; don't talk back.
