Sauvresy was stupefied. He had no idea of this Parisian nature, detestable and excellent, emotional to excess, nervous, full of transitions, which laughs and cries, caresses and strikes in the same minute, which a passing idea whirls a hundred leagues from the present moment.
"So," said Jenny, more calmly, "I snap my fingers at Hector,"—she had just said exactly the contrary, and had forgotten it—"I don't care for him, but I will not let him leave me in this way. It sha'n't be said that he left me for another. I won't have it."
Jenny was one of those women who do not reason, but who feel; with whom it is folly to argue, for their fixed idea is impregnable to the most victorious arguments. Sauvresy asked himself why she had asked him to come, and said to himself that the part he had intended to play would be a difficult one. But he was patient.
"I see, my child," he commenced, "that you haven't understood or even heard me. I told you that Hector was intending to marry."
"He!" answered Jenny, with an ironical gesture. "He get married."
She reflected a moment, and added:
"If it were true, though—"
"I tell you it is so."
"No," cried Jenny, "no, that can't be possible. He loves another, I am sure of it, for I have proofs."
Sauvresy smiled; this irritated her.