"Mademoiselle!"
"Oh, I talk to Poupon, whom you despise,—and—now, the omelette, monsieur. Let me help you."
They had drawn chairs to the table, and the girl poured two glasses of wine. She watched him drain his glass and then refilled it, finally observing, with a smile,—
"It can't be Madeleine——"
"Oh! to the devil with——" but he checked himself by the sudden recollection of the terrible misfortune that had overtaken Madeleine.
Mlle. Fouchette shrugged her shoulders, but she lost no point of his confusion.
"Is it necessary, then," he asked, cynically, "that I should be in love with some one?" He laughed, but his merriment did not deceive her.
"Ah! Anybody can see, monsieur, you love or you hate—one."
"Both, perhaps," he suggested. "For instance, I love your omelette and I hate your questions."
"You hate Monsieur Lerouge, therefore you love where he is concerned."