Piquette only smiled faintly.
"Yes, I love 'im." And then, with the simplicity of a child, "Don't you, Madame?"
Moira stared at her for a second as though she hadn't heard correctly.
"No. No. This is too much. You will oblige me——"
"You wish me to go?" said Piquette with a shrug. "In a moment. But firs' let me tell you dat what Monsieur Quinlevin 'as tol' you about us is a lie—all lies."
"You forget, Madame," said Moira, "that I have seen."
Piquette smiled.
"Because I go to sleep wit' my 'ead on 'is shoulder. An' what is dat? For shame, Madame. Jeem 'Orton care' not'ing for me. I bring 'im out of de 'ouse in de Rue Charron—I nurse 'im in my apartment. You t'ink 'e make love to me when 'e t'ink of you?"
Piquette laughed scornfully.
"What kind of woman are you to see de love in de eyes of an hones' man an' not remember it, for de greates' t'ing dat come' in a woman's life? 'Is eyes! Mon Dieu, Madame. I know de eyes of men. 'E on'y love once, Jeem 'Orton—an' you t'ink 'e make love to me. I would give myself to 'im, but what Jeem 'Orton give' to me is much more sweet, more beautiful. 'E kees me on de brow, Madame, like I was a chil', when I would give 'im my body." Piquette stopped, and then, gently, "A woman like me, Madame, can on'y worship a man like dat."