One day about this time, Costantino was informed that five francs had been paid in to his account. "He did it!" he exclaimed. "I am sure it was the priest. What a kind man he is! But I don't need it; no, indeed, I don't need the money at all."
"You stupid," said the King of Spades. "Take it; if you don't he will be offended. 'I don't want it!' A pretty way that to acknowledge a present!"
"But I should be ashamed to take it. And what could I do with it, anyhow?"
"Why, eat, drink—you have need to, I can assure you. You would like to send it home, I suppose? The devil take you! If you do such an idiotic thing as that I will spit in your face! Why, see here, she doesn't even write to you any more; she——"
"What is there for her to write about?" said Costantino, trying vainly to think of some excuse. "Besides," he added, "she will be working now, the winter is nearly over."
"Yes, it is nearly over, and then the spring will come," said the other in a tone that had almost a menace in it. "It will come."
"Why, of course, it will come!"
"When does the warm weather begin with you? We have it in March."
"Oh, with us, not till June. But then it is so beautiful. The grass grows—oh! as tall as that, and they clip the sheep, and the bees are making honey!"
"An idyl, truly! You don't know what an idyl is? Well, I'll tell you. It is—sometimes it is—infidelity. Wait till June. How long is it since you've been to confession?"