"'She is not my wife,' I interrupted him.
"'Very well then, your mistress; it does not matter to me.'
"He told me what must be done for her, what her diet must be, and then wrote a prescription.
"What was I to do? Could I send the poor creature to the hospital? I should have been looked upon as a brute in the house and in all the neighborhood, and so I kept her in my rooms, and she had my bed for six weeks.
"I sent the child to some peasants at Poissy to be taken care of, and she still costs me fifty francs[9] a month, for as I had paid at first, I shall be obliged to go on paying as long as I live, and later on, she will believe that I am her father. But to crown my misfortunes, when the girl had recovered ... I found that she was in love with me, madly in love with me, the baggage!"
"Well?"
"Well, she had grown as thin as a homeless cat, and I turned the skeleton out of doors, but she watches for me in the streets, hides herself, so that she may see me pass, stops me in the evening when I go out, in order to kiss my hand, and, in fact, worries me enough to drive me mad; and that is why I never keep Christmas eve now."
WORDS OF LOVE
Sunday.—