“Have I done well or ill?” said I.
“Well enough, but if you love me come and see me.”
“See you after what your mother said?”
“Well, why not, who knows of it?”
“Who knows? You don’t know me, Redegonde. I do not care to indulge myself in idle hopes, and I thought I had spoken to you plainly enough.”
Feeling angry, and vowing to have no more to do with this strange girl, I supped with Therese, and spent three delightful hours with her. I had a great deal of writing to do the next day and kept in doors, and in the evening I had a visit from the young Corticelli, her mother and brother. She begged me to keep my promise regarding the manager of the theatre, who would not let her dance the ‘pas de deux’ stipulated for in the agreement.
“Come and breakfast with me to-morrow morning,” said I, “and I will speak to the Israelite in your presence—at least I will do so if he comes.”
“I love you very much,” said the young wanton, “can’t I stop a little longer here.”
“You may stop as long as you like, but as I have got some letters to finish, I must ask you to excuse my entertaining you.”
“Oh! just as you please.”