Now she was busy in her sequestered cot, touching, rather than putting, things into order. She had a gift for cleanliness. Her hands winnowed the dust like the fluttering wings of butterflies. Baptiste, ostensibly occupied with his catechism-book, watched her from his corner, unwinking like a squatting toad.
He saw her pause once, with her fingers stroking the back of the chair on which the stranger artist had sat yesterday. A smile was on her lips. Then she moved into the little closet that was her sleeping-place and made her bed, patting the sheets caressingly, as if some child of her fancy lay underneath.
“She will punish me if she sees me looking at her now,” thought the sad, sharp child; and he bent over his task.
“Tiens! little monkey! Here is a biscotin for thee,” said Mademoiselle Lambertine at the door.
The child caught and began to devour the cake ravenously.
“That will give thee a better relish for the food of the soul,” said Théroigne.
She came in languorous and flushed, fanning herself with a spray of large-flowered syringa. The heavy scent of it floated over the room, penetrating to Nicette in her retreat.
“Oh, the sweet orange-blossom!” cried the portière. “Is it a bride to visit me?”
Théroigne stopped the action of her hand. Her teeth bit upon her under lip.
“Orange-blossom!” she exclaimed.