“So ‘Ma Mie’”—this was his pet name for Kate—“they tell me that Mademoiselle has gone off this morning,” said he, “no longer able to tolerate a house where there is no mistress.”
“The note she left behind her went fully into the matter,” said Kate. “It was not alone that you were unmarried, but that you were a very well-known monster of vice.”
“Vrai! vrai!” cried he, with ecstasy; “monstre épouvantable!”
“And, to confirm it, she added, that no one came here; that the neighbours avoided the house, as the abode of a plague; and even sight-seers would not gratify the craving of their curiosity at the cost of their propriety.”
“Did she say all that?”
“Yes; she said it very neatly, too; as prettily and as tersely as such impertinence can be put in nice French.”
“And this is the ninth departure, is it not, Ma Mie, on these high grounds of morality?”
“No, Sir; only the fifth. Two alleged loneliness, one accused the damp, and one protested against my temper!”
“What had you done, then?”
“Everything that was cross and ill natured. It was the unlucky week that Cid Hamet staked himself.”