“Oh, yes, master, happy, happy! Pearls are so sweet, so pure! And these are so becoming to me!”
For an instant longer she admired herself in the glass, innocently vain of her fair flower-like skin, under the nacre drops of the pearls. Then, yielding to a desire to show herself, hearing the servant moving about outside, she ran out, crying:
“Martine, Martine! See what master has just given me! Say, am I not beautiful!”
But all at once, seeing the old maid’s severe face, that had suddenly turned an ashen hue, she became confused, and all her pleasure was spoiled. Perhaps she had a consciousness of the jealous pang which her brilliant youth caused this poor creature, worn out in the dumb resignation of her servitude, in adoration of her master. This, however, was only a momentary feeling, unconscious in the one, hardly suspected by the other, and what remained was the evident disapprobation of the economical servant, condemning the present with her sidelong glance.
Clotilde was seized with a little chill.
“Only,” she murmured, “master has rummaged his desk again. Pearls are very dear, are they not?”
Pascal, embarrassed, too, protested volubly, telling them of the splendid opportunity presented by the dealer’s visit. An incredibly good stroke of business—it was impossible to avoid buying the necklace.
“How much?” asked the young girl with real anxiety.
“Three hundred francs.”
Martine, who had not yet opened her lips, but who looked terrible in her silence, could not restrain a cry.