“Or perhaps Florine,” M. de Cliche interposed. “I should like to get hold of Florine!”
“I DID—I did tell him so!” Francie repeated with all her fevered candour, alluding to her statement of a moment before and speaking as if she thought the circumstance detracted from the offence.
“So did I—so did we all!” said Mme. de Cliche.
“And will he suffer—as you suffer?” Francie continued, appealing to Mr. Probert.
“Suffer, suffer? He’ll die!” cried the old man. “However, I won’t answer for him; he’ll tell you himself, when he returns.”
“He’ll die?” echoed Francie with the eyes of a child at the pantomime who has found the climax turning to demons or monsters or too much gunpowder.
“He’ll never return—how can he show himself?” said Mme. de Cliche.
“That’s not true—he’ll come back to stand by me!” the girl flashed out.
“How couldn’t you feel us to be the last—the very last?” asked Mr. Probert with great gentleness. “How couldn’t you feel my poor son to be the last—?”
“C’est un sens qui lui manque!” shrilled implacably Mme. de Cliche.