“Could Monsieur do it himself?”
“Women who are worthy the name ought infinitely to surpass; our coarse, fallible, self-indulgent sex, in the power to perform such duties.”
“I washed her, I kept her clean, I fed her, I tried to amuse her; but she made mouths at me instead of speaking.”
“You think you did great things?”
“No; but as great as I could do.”
“Then limited are your powers, for in tending one idiot you fell sick.”
“Not with that, Monsieur; I had a nervous fever: my mind was ill.”
“Vraiment! Vous valez peu de chose. You are not cast in an heroic mould; your courage will not avail to sustain you in solitude; it merely gives you the temerity to gaze with sang-froid at pictures of Cleopatra.”
It would have been easy to show anger at the teasing, hostile tone of the little man. I had never been angry with him yet, however, and had no present disposition to begin.
“Cleopatra!” I repeated, quietly. “Monsieur, too, has been looking at Cleopatra; what does he think of her?”