“Do you not believe in Providence? are you an atheist, Nicole? of the school of Voltaire who denies all that sort of thing?”
“Beausire, no matter what I am, you are a fool.”
“Springing from the lower class, as you do, it is not surprising that you nourish such notions. I warn you that they do not appertain to my caste and political opinions.”
“You are a saucebox,” returned the beauty of the past.
“But I have faith. If anyone were to say, ‘Beausire, your son who has gone out to buy a sugar stick, will return with a lump of gold,’ I should answer: ‘Very likely, if it be the will of Allah!’ as a Turkish gentleman of my acquaintance says.”
“Beausire, you are an idiot,” said Nicole, but she had hardly spoken the words before young Toussaint’s voice was heard on the stairs calling:
“Oh, papa—mamma!”
“What is the matter?” cried Nicole, opening the door with true maternal solicitude. “Come, my darling, come.”
The voice drew near like the ventriloquist doing the trick of the man in the cellar.
“I should not be astonished if he had lit on the streak of good luck I feel promised,” said the gambler.