She blushed as she spoke, for at that very moment she met Cristiano’s eyes, and their vivacity reminded her of those of the false Goefle. From time to time the young man, with an involuntary movement, had raised the doctor’s green spectacles, so as to see better, and Margaret had noticed how brilliantly his eyes flashed between the ear-pieces of his fur cap.
“But how is it,” resumed the professor, addressing the young girl without observing her confusion, “that you are not dancing? I thought you would be the queen of the evening, and that no one would have a chance to speak to you.”
“Well, my dear lover, you are mistaken. I am not going to dance. I sprained my foot coming down stairs. Don’t you see how lame I am?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. You want to resemble me, do you? Tell M. Goefle how it was that I became lame; it was a terrible affair, and would have been the death of any one else. Yes, monsieur, you see before you a victim of science.”
Without giving Margaret time to speak, he began to relate, with great animation, how the rope had broken as he had been descending into a mine, and how he had fallen with the basket into the bottom of the abyss, a distance of fifty feet, seven inches, and five lines. For six hours, fifty-three minutes, and how many seconds we are not prepared to state, he lay in a swoon, and for two months, four days, and three hours and a half, had not been able to move. With the same exasperating accuracy he specified the exact size of the plasters that had been applied to his various wounds, and the quantity, by drachms, grains, and scruples, of the different drugs that he had absorbed, whether in doses taken internally, or by means of external applications rubbed into his skin.
It was a long story, although the old man spoke rapidly, and did not repeat himself. His memory was a real scourge; it would not allow him to omit the least circumstance; and when he was talking of himself, it never occurred to him that any one could be tired of listening.
Margaret, who knew the story by heart, could not be very attentive, and talked aside with Mademoiselle Potin for a few moments. The result of this short conference, which Cristiano did not fail to notice, was soon evident; good Mademoiselle Potin seized the moment when the professor had finished his story, and before he could embark in another, which he was all ready to do, begged him, with hypocritical frankness, to explain a paragraph in his last work, which she pretended she had not been able to understand.
Cristiano could not help admiring woman’s natural tact, when he saw how eagerly the professor entered into a discussion with the governess, while Margaret’s eyes said clearly to the young man:
“I am dying to speak to you.”
He did not wait to be told twice, but followed her to the other extremity of the little semicircle, where she seated herself upon a sofa, while he stood before her in a respectful attitude, outside the embrasure, in such a way as to shield her from observation.