Nicette was at the tiny casement, delicately coaxing its curtains into folds that pleased her. She was too fastidious with her task to speak for a moment.
“Well,” she said at length, “it is an evil, I suppose, that only withdraws itself for a day or two?”
“Better than that, little saint. He goes all the way to Paris. ‘But Mademoiselle Théroigne,’ says he, ‘I leave my heart behind me. I will come back to reclaim it in the spring. In the meantime, do me the favour to keep it on ice; for I think Méricourt is very near the tropics.’ Bah! is he not an imbecile? We are well quit of him.”
“In the spring!”
Nicette came round with a face like hard ivory.
“Théroigne—why did he speak to you like that? It is not wise or good of you to court so insolent a familiarity.”
“I did not court it, and I am not wise or good.”
Mademoiselle Lambertine looked startled and displeased.
“What has come to thee, Nicette? It is not like thee to rebuke poor sinners save by thy better example.”
“And that is a negative virtue, is it not? Now were time, perhaps, that you give me the pretext, to end a struggle that my heart has long maintained with my conscience.”