"Félix, this will never do," he gasped when at length he could speak. "Never after a carouse have I been so maudlin. Compose yourself, for the love of Heaven. Think of something serious; think of me! Think of Peyrot, think of Mayenne, think of Lucas. Think of what will happen to us now if Mayenne know us for ourselves."
"Enough, monsieur," I said. "I am sobered."
But even now that I held still we could not draw the last holes in the bodice-point nearly together.
"Nay, monsieur, I can never wear it like this," I panted, when he had tied it as tight as he could. "I shall die, or I shall burst the seams." He had perforce to give me more room; he pulled the apron higher to cover gaps, and fastened a bunch of keys and a pocket at my waist. He set a brown wig on my head, nearly covered by a black mortier, with its wide scarf hanging down my back.
"Hang me, but you make a fine, strapping grisette," he cried, proud of me as if I were a picture, he the painter. "Félix, you've no notion how handsome you look. Dame! you defrauded the world when you contrived to be born a boy."
"I thank my stars I was born a boy," I declared. "I wouldn't get into this toggery for any one else on earth. I tell monsieur that, flat."
"You must change your shoes," he cried eagerly. "Your hobnails spoil all."
I put one of his gossip's shoes on the floor beside my foot.
"Now, monsieur, I ask you, how am I to get into that?"
"Shall I fetch you Vigo's?" he grinned.