So she only smiled a queer smile which spoke as plainly as
words. Muffat had raised his eyes to her and now once more lowered them,
looking pale and full of embarrassment.
"Ah, you're not good natured," she muttered at last.
"I cannot," he said with a voice and a look of the utmost anguish. "I'll
do whatever you like, but not that, dear love! Oh, I beg you not to
insist on that!"
Thereupon she wasted no more time in discussion but took his head
between her small hands, pushed it back a little, bent down and glued
her mouth to his in a long, long kiss. He shivered violently; he
trembled beneath her touch; his eyes were closed, and he was beside
himself. She lifted him to his feet.
"Go," said she simply.
He walked off, making toward the door. But as he passed out she took him
in her arms again, became meek and coaxing, lifted her face to his and
rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat, much as a cat might have done.
"Where's the fine house?" she whispered in laughing embarrassment, like
a little girl who returns to the pleasant things she has previously
refused.
"In the Avenue de Villiers."
"And there are carriages there?"
"Yes."
"Lace? Diamonds?"
"Yes."
"Oh, how good you are, my old pet! You know it was all jealousy just
now! And this time I solemnly promise you it won't be like the first,
for now you understand what's due to a woman.
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