“I do not understand your question, sir.”
“It is perfectly limpid, nevertheless. I am asking myself how you are going to live, your mother and yourself?”
“Providence will not abandon us, sir.”
M. Costeclar had crossed his legs, and with the end of his cane he was negligently tapping his immaculate boot.
“Providence!” he giggled; “that’s very good on the stage, in a play, with low music in the orchestra. I can just see it. In real life, unfortunately, the life which we both live, you and I, it is not with words, were they a yard long, that the baker, the grocer, and those rascally landlords, can be paid, or that dresses and shoes can be bought.”
She made no answer.
“Now, then,” he went on, “here you are without a penny. Is it Maxence who will supply you with money? Poor fellow! Where would he get it? He has hardly enough for himself. Therefore, what are you going to do?”
“I shall work, sir.”
He got up, bowed low, and, resuming his seat,
“My sincere compliments,” he said. “There is but one obstacle to that fine resolution: it is impossible for a woman to live by her labor alone. Servants are about the only ones who ever get their full to eat.”