“How can I say if it was wrong? But if you have secrets from me, I will have none from you. I saw your mysterieux at the Opera-House the other night, Fifine. He was in the orchestra, and playing a violoncello.”
She looked positively scared for a moment; then her face changed, and she laughed, but tremulously.
“It is not my secret,” she said, “or I would tell you; I would indeed. Don’t be angry with me, Felix.”
“Angry, my dear child!” I protested. “I only wanted to impress upon you the comparative unreasonableness of your present scruples. Believe me, if you will, the risk entailed in our leaving Paris is nothing to that courted by you in remaining on and remaining subject to chance intrusions like that.”
“Yes,” she said, very submissively; “I daresay you are right.” But nevertheless it took days to coax and persuade her—until I gave it up in despair. And then she suddenly surrendered.
“So it is finally decided you will not come with me?” I said to her one morning.
“Yes, finally,” she answered.
“Then that will do, and I have no more to say.”
“O!” says Fifine, “I don’t want to prevent you talking about it, if it amuses you.”
“It doesn’t in the least. I am so sick of the subject that it has no longer the smallest interest for me.”