Up I shot in bed, rubbing my eyes.
"Your what?"
"My knife. Ha! I've caught you. Cutting your sticks and carving your name with my couteau de chasse! You have been to my bedroom. Don't answer me! You have been to my bedroom, and taken it from the pocket of my coat. A pretty thing!"
Joubert's temper all yesterday had been savage; his infernal amours were not prospering, it seems. In fact, as I afterwards learned from his own lips, a scullion, resenting his addresses, had called him an old French dog without teeth.
"It was sticking in my pillow when I came to bed!" cried I, indignant at the accusation.
"Your pillow, when you came to bed!" Joubert seized me, ran me across the room by my shoulders to a large mirror, pointed to the reflection of my shrinking form, and yelled:
"Do you see that?"
"Mais, oui."
"Then you see a liar."