"Now you can understand, Fouchette. You are a woman. Put yourself in her place,—imagine that you are Mademoiselle Remy at this moment. And you look something like her, really,—that is, at least you have the exact shade of hair. What beautiful hair you have, Fouchette! Suppose you were Mademoiselle Remy, I was going to say, and I were to tell you all this and—and how much I loved you,—how I adored you,—and got down on my knees to you and begged of you——"
"Oh!"
"And asked you for a corner—one small corner in your heart——"
"Ah! mon ami!"
"What would you——"
"Shall I show you, mon frère?"
"Yes—quickly!"
He had, with French gesture, suiting the action to the word, knelt beside her and extended his arms, as if it were the woman he loved.
"Mon Dieu!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, throwing herself upon his breast precipitately and entwining his neck with her arms,—"it would be this! It would be this! Ah! mon Dieu! It surely would be this!"
For the moment Jean was so carried away by his imagination that he accepted Mlle. Fouchette as Mlle. Remy and pressed her to his heart. He mingled his tears and kisses with hers. Her fair hair fell upon his face and he covered it with passionate caresses. He poured out the endearing words of a heart surcharged with love. It was a very clever make-believe on both sides,—very clever and realistic.