“To come to the point, no, a thousand times no, I am weaker than a child.”
Stephanette began to run.
The captain of The Holy Terror to the Moors was obliged to exercise his long, heron-like legs to catch up with her, as he said, with a stifled voice, “Ah, well, come now, diabolical creature that you are,—one must do as you wish,—here I am on my knees,—only stop a moment. Ah, well, yes, I was wrong. Are you satisfied? Is it possible to be so base?” murmured Luquin, in parenthesis; then he said, aloud: “Ah, well, yes, I was wrong to be jealous of—of—But at least stop, will you not? I cannot run after you on my knees. I was wrong, I tell you.”
Stephanette slackened her gait a little, then stopped still, and said to Luquin, without turning her head:
“On your knees.”
“Well, I am; I am on my knees. Fortunately for my dignity as a man, that corner of the wall hides me from the eyes of that old gossip of a majordomo,” said Luquin to himself.
“Repeat after me.”
“Yes, but do turn your head, Stephanette, so I can see you; that will give me courage.”
“Repeat, repeat first; come, say, ‘I was wrong to be jealous of that poor Bohemian.’”
“Humph! I was wrong to be jealous of—that—humph—of that scoundrel of a Bohemian.”