“How about yourself?”
“Alas! I have to bear a thousand mortifications every day. They are continually reproaching me with having fallen in love with this Frenchman, and bringing them to this dreadful pass.”
“Were you really in love with him?”
“Yes, really.”
“Then you must be very unhappy.”
“Yes, very; but not on account of my love, for I shall get over that in time, but because of that which will happen to-morrow.”
“Can’t you make any conquests at the table d’hote?”
“Some of the men say pretty things to me, but as they all know how poor we are they are afraid to come to our room.”
“And yet in spite of all you keep cheerful; you don’t look sad like most of the unhappy. I congratulate you on your good spirits.” Irene’s tale was like the fair Stuard’s story over again, and Marcoline, though she had taken rather too much champagne, was deeply moved at this picture of misery. She kissed the girl, telling her that I would not forsake her, and that in the meanwhile they would spend a pleasant night.
“Come! let us to bed!” said she; and after taking off her clothes she helped Irene to undress. I had no wish to fight, against two, and said that I wanted to rest. The fair Venetian burst out laughing and said,—