‘Yes,’ she said; ‘it suits me. But the great heats are terrible here.’
‘You do not leave Paris, then?’
‘Never. Except to see my little boy.’
I started, envious of her, and also surprised. It seemed strange that this ribboned and elegant and plastic creature, whose long, thin arms were used only to dalliance, should be a mother.
‘So you have a little boy?’
‘Yes; he lives with my parents at Meudon. He is four years old.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Be frank with me once again. Do you love your child, honestly? So many women don’t, it appears.’
‘Do I love him?’ she cried, and her face glowed with her love. ‘I adore him!’ Her sincerity was touching and overwhelming. ‘And he loves me, too. If he is naughty, one has only to tell him that he will make his petite mère ill, and he will be good at once. When he is told to obey his grandfather, because his grandfather provides his food, he says bravely: “No, not grandpapa; it is petite mère!” Is it not strange he should know that I pay for him? He has a little engraving of the Queen of Italy, and he says it is his petite mère. Among the scores of pictures he has he keeps only that one. He takes it to bed with him. It is impossible to deprive him of it.’
She smiled divinely.
‘How beautiful!’ I said. ‘And you go to see him often?’