"Pierrot," she said, softly, "what hast thou? Thou art not angry with thy gosseline?"
Pierre surveyed the outline of the newspaper vender thoughtfully, touched it, here and there, with his pencil-point, squinted, and then pushed the paper toward the girl.
"Not bad," he said, replacing his pencil in his pocket.
But Mimi had no eyes for the caricature, and merely flicked the wine-card to the ground.
"Pierrot"—she repeated.
Vauquelin plunged his hands in his pockets and looked at her.
"Well, then," he announced, almost brutally, "we do not go to-morrow."
"Pierre!"
It was going to be much worse than he had supposed, this little tragedy. Bon Dieu, how pretty she was, with her startled, hurt eyes, already filling with tears, and her parted lips, and her little white hand, that had flashed up to her cheek at his words! Oh, much worse than he had supposed! But she must be told: there was nothing but that. So Pierre put his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, and brought his face close to hers.