“And, pray,” said he, looking at Carabine, “what object have you in torturing my heart, for you must have paid very dear for the privilege of having the note in your possession long enough to get it lithographed?”
“Foolish man!” said Carabine, at a nod from Madame Nourrisson, “don’t you see that poor child Cydalise—a girl of sixteen, who has been pining for you these three months, till she has lost her appetite for food or drink, and who is heart-broken because you have never even glanced at her?”
Cydalise put her handkerchief to her eyes with an appearance of emotion—“She is furious,” Carabine went on, “though she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth, furious to see the man she adores duped by a villainous hussy; she would kill Valerie—”
“Oh, as for that,” said the Brazilian, “that is my business!”
“What, killing?” said old Nourrisson. “No, my son, we don’t do that here nowadays.”
“Oh!” said Montes, “I am not a native of this country. I live in a parish where I can laugh at your laws; and if you give me proof—”
“Well, that note. Is that nothing?”
“No,” said the Brazilian. “I do not believe in the writing. I must see for myself.”
“See!” cried Carabine, taking the hint at once from a gesture of her supposed aunt. “You shall see, my dear Tiger, all you wish to see—on one condition.”
“And that is?”