“Fight!” echoed Poiret.
“Not they,” replied Mme. Vauquer, lovingly fingering her pile of coins.
“But there they are under the lime-trees,” cried Mlle. Victorine, who had risen so that she might see out into the garden. “Poor young man! he was in the right, after all.”
“We must go upstairs, my pet,” said Mme. Couture; “it is no business of ours.”
At the door, however, Mme. Couture and Victorine found their progress barred by the portly form of Sylvie the cook.
“What ever can have happened?” she said. “M. Vautrin said to M. Eugene, ‘Let us have an explanation!’ then he took him by the arm, and there they are, out among the artichokes.”
Vautrin came in while she was speaking. “Mamma Vauquer,” he said smiling, “don’t frighten yourself at all. I am only going to try my pistols under the lime-trees.”
“Oh! monsieur,” cried Victorine, clasping her hands as she spoke, “why do you want to kill M. Eugene?”
Vautrin stepped back a pace or two, and gazed at Victorine.
“Oh! this is something fresh!” he exclaimed in a bantering tone, that brought the color into the poor girl’s face. “That young fellow yonder is very nice, isn’t he?” he went on. “You have given me a notion, my pretty child; I will make you both happy.”