"Oh, dear me! Did your foot slip?"
Without making any reply, the Chouette seized Tortillard by the hair, and, stooping to a level with his cheek, she bit it with such fury that the blood spurted out beneath her teeth. Strange, however, Tortillard, in spite of his usual vindictiveness, in spite of feeling such intense pain, did not utter a murmur or a cry. He only wiped his bleeding cheek, and said, with a forced laugh:
"I hope next time you will not kiss me so hard,—eh, La Chouette?"
"Wicked little brat! Why did you tread on my gown on purpose to make me fall?"
"Me? Oh! How could you think so? I swear I didn't do it on purpose, my dear Chouette! Don't think your little Tortillard would do you any harm; he loves you too well for that. You should never beat him, or scold him, or bite him, for he is as fond of you as if he were a poor little dog, and you were his mistress!" said the boy, in a gentle and insinuating tone.
Deceived by Tortillard's hypocrisy, the Chouette believed him, and replied:
"Well, well, if I was wrong to bite you, why, let it go for all the other times you have deserved it, you little villain! But, vive la joie! To-day I bear no malice. Where is your old rogue of a father?"
"In the house. Shall I go and find him for you?"
"No; are the Martials here?"
"Not yet."