“And then, my dear client, in ten minutes old Pillerault is asked to dismiss you, and then on a couple of hours’ notice—”
“What does that matter to me?” said La Cibot, rising to her feet like a Bellona; “I shall stay with the gentlemen as their housekeeper.”
“And then, a trap will be set for you, and some fine morning you and your husband will wake up in a prison cell, to be tried for your lives—”
“I?” cried La Cibot, “I that have not a farthing that doesn’t belong to me?... I!... I!”
For five minutes she held forth, and Fraisier watched the great artist before him as she executed a concerto of self-praise. He was quite untouched, and even amused by the performance. His keen glances pricked La Cibot like stilettos; he chuckled inwardly, till his shrunken wig was shaking with laughter. He was a Robespierre at an age when the Sylla of France was make couplets.
“And how? and why? And on what pretext?” demanded she, when she had come to an end.
“You wish to know how you may come to the guillotine?”
La Cibot turned pale as death at the words; the words fell like a knife upon her neck. She stared wildly at Fraisier.
“Listen to me, my dear child,” began Fraisier, suppressing his inward satisfaction at his client’s discomfiture.
“I would sooner leave things as they are—” murmured La Cibot, and she rose to go.