Sylvie threw a look at Mademoiselle Habert,—one of those glances which pass from old maid to old maid, feline and cruel.
“Pierrette, you did see my hand,” said Sylvie fixing her eyes on the girl.
“No, cousin.”
“I was looking at you all,” said the deputy-judge, “and I can swear that Pierrette saw no one’s hand but the colonel’s.”
“Pooh!” said Gouraud, alarmed, “little girls know how to slide their eyes into everything.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Sylvie.
“Yes,” continued Gouraud. “I dare say she looked into your hand to play you a trick. Didn’t you, little one?”
“No,” said the truthful Breton, “I wouldn’t do such a thing; if I had, it would have been in my cousin’s interests.”
“You know you are a story-teller and a little fool,” cried Sylvie. “After what happened this morning do you suppose I can believe a word you say? You are a—”
Pierrette did not wait for Sylvie to finish her sentence; foreseeing a torrent of insults, she rushed away without a light and ran to her room. Sylvie turned white with anger and muttered between her teeth, “She shall pay for this!”