At once she got up, and, smiling amid her tears, took his arm and came with him to the dining-room, looking the very picture of a happy victim.
She sat down between M. d’Anquetil and me, her head inclined on the shoulder of her lover the while her foot felt for mine under the table.
“Gentlemen,” said our host, “forgive my vivacity, an impulse I cannot regret, because it gives me the honour to entertain you at this place. To say the truth, I cannot endure all the whims of this pretty girl, and I have been very suspicious since I surprised her with her Capuchin.”
“My dear friend,” Catherine said, pressing at the sama time her foot on mine, “your jealousy goes astray. You should know that my only liking is for M. Jacques.”
“She jests,” said M. d’Anquetil.
“Do not doubt of it,” said I. “It is quite evident that she loves you, and you alone.”
“Without flattering myself,” he replied, “I have somehow attracted her attachment. But she is coquettish and fickle.”
“Give me something to drink,” said the abbe.
M. d’Anquetil passed him the demijohn and exclaimed:
“By gad! abbé, you who belong to the Church, you’ll tell us why women love Capuchins.”