“Cayrol, oblige me by speaking in a lower tone,” said Madame Desvarennes, quietly. “There is some misunderstanding between you and this child.”
The husband shrugged his broad shoulders.
“A misunderstanding? Faith! I think so! You have a delicacy of language which pleases me! A misunderstanding! Say rather a shameful deception! But I want to know the gentleman’s name. She will have to speak. I am not a scented, educated gentleman. I am a peasant, and if I have to—”
“Enough,” said Madame Desvarennes, sharply tapping with the tips of her fingers Cayrol’s great fist which he held menacingly like a butcher about to strike. Then, taking him quietly aside toward the window, she added:
“You are a fool to go on like this! Go to my room for a moment. To you, now, she will not say anything; to me she will confide all and we shall know what to do.”
Cayrol’s face brightened.
“You are right,” he said. “Yes, as ever, you are right. You must excuse rile, I do not know how to talk to women. Rebuke her and put a little sense in her head. But don’t leave her; she is fit to commit any folly.”
Madame Desvarennes smiled.
“Be easy,” she answered.
And making a sign to Cayrol, who was leaving the room, she returned to Jeanne.