"Cecily! Cecily!" murmured a voice, which was plaintive though coarse. And through the wicket was visible the pale and flat face of Jacques Ferrand.
Cecily, silent until then, began to hum a creole air; the words of this melody were sweet and expressive. Although repressed, the full contra-alto of Cecily was heard above the noise of the torrents of the rain and gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its very foundation.
"Cecily! Cecily!" repeated Jacques Ferrand, in a tone of supplication.
The creole paused suddenly and turned her head around quickly, as if, for the first time, she then heard the notary's voice; and going towards the door,—
"What, dear master (she called him so in derision), you there?" she said, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her full and sarcastic voice.
"Oh, how beautiful you are!" murmured the notary.
"You think so?" said Cecily. "Doesn't my head-dress become me?"
"I think you handsomer every day."
"Only see how white my arm is."
"Monster, begone! Begone!" shouted Jacques Ferrand, furious.