It was a piece of very fine old Brussels. Octave examined it carefully, and ended by valuing it at three hundred francs. Then, without waiting further, as their hands were both handling the lace, he bent forward and kissed her fingers, fingers as delicate as a little girl’s.
“Oh! Monsieur Octave, at my age! you cannot think what you are doing!” murmured Madame Juzeur, prettily, without getting angry.
She was thirty-two, and pretended she was quite old. And she made her usual allusion to her misfortunes; good heavens! yes, after ten days of married bliss, the cruel man had gone off one morning and had not returned, nobody had ever discovered why.
“You can understand,” continued she, gazing up at the ceiling, “that all is over for the woman who has gone through this.”
Octave had kept hold of her little warm hand which seemed to mould itself to his, and he continued kissing it lightly, on the fingers. She turned her eyes towards him, and gazed upon him with a vague and tender look; then, in a maternal way, she uttered this single word:
“Child!”
Thinking himself encouraged, he wished to take her round the waist, and draw her on to the sofa; but she freed herself without any violence, and slipped from his arms, laughing, and with an air of thinking that he was merely playing.
“No, leave me alone, do not touch me, if you wish that we should remain good friends.”
“Then, no?” asked he in a low voice.
“What, no? What do you mean? Oh! my hand, as much as you like!”