“Would you be sorry—even for poor Nicette, monsieur?”
“Sorry, child! Look up, in God’s name!”
She raised her face. Her lids flickered and opened.
“Can you see?” he asked, distraught and eager.
“I—something—a little,” murmured the unconscionable gipsy. “I can see monsieur’s face—far or near—which is it?”
She put up a timid hand. Her fingers fluttered like a moth against his temple.
“I don’t think I am blind, monsieur. My eyes——”
In his jubilation he took her head between his palms, and, with a boyish laugh, kissed each of the blue flowers—to make them open, he said.
“No, I am not blind,” said she.