“Let us have a look round,” she began.
And thereupon she began inspecting the apartment. He followed in her footsteps, while she gazed at the furniture, examined the walls, looked upwards, and started back, chattering all the time.
“I don’t like your cretonne; it is so frightfully common!” said she. “Where did you buy that abominable pink stuff? There’s a chair that would be nice if the wood weren’t covered with gilding. Not a picture, not a nick-nack—only your chandelier and your candelabra, which are by no means in good style! Ah well, my dear fellow; I advise you to continue laughing at my Japanese pavilion!”
She burst into a laugh, thus revenging herself on him for the old affronts which still rankled in her breast.
“Your taste is a pretty one, and no mistake! You don’t know that my idol is worth more than the whole lot of your things! A draper’s shopman wouldn’t have selected that pink stuff. Was it your idea to fascinate your washerwoman?”
Malignon felt very much hurt, and did not answer. He made an attempt to lead her into the inner room; but she remained on the threshold, declaring that she never entered such gloomy places. Besides, she could see quite enough; the one room was worthy of the other. The whole of it had come from the Saint-Antoine quarter.
But the hanging lamp was her special aversion. She attacked it with merciless raillery—what a trashy thing it was, such as some little work-girl with no furniture of her own might have dreamt of! Why, lamps in the same style could be bought at all the bazaars at seven francs fifty centimes apiece.
“I paid ninety francs for it,” at last ejaculated Malignon in his impatience.
Thereupon she seemed delighted at having angered him.
On his self-possession returning, he inquired: “Won’t you take off your cloak?”