"Ma Vieille—she make a list of all. They will be sold—for ze children of Paris—ze gamins—as I was—for a good time." She held out her hand: "C'est joli, n'est ce pas?"
He looked unwillingly. It was a black opal, and as she moved it it seemed to come to life, and a distant resentful fire gleamed out of its sullen depths.
"Yes. But you oughtn't to have all—all this stuff about. No one could be held responsible——"
"What does it matter? If someone take it—someone 'ave it. It won't worry me. 'Ere, I tell you something—a story, hein, to amuse you? You remember our leetle dinner and 'ow I would not tell about ze Grand Duke and ze black opal? Well, I tell you now. It don't matter any more."
"No. You're doing yourself harm. You ought to sleep."
"I don't want to—I can't. It is 'orrible to lie awake in ze dark and—— And you, too, Monsieur Robert, you don't feel you sleep much to-night, hein?"
"No."
"Alors—'ere we are—two poor fellows shipwrecked—we make a leetle feast together—a feast of good stories. You say you don't like me ver' much. But that is ridicule now. One only 'ates when one is afraid, and you aren't afraid any more of poor Gyp."
"Was I ever?" he demanded.
"A leetle—per'aps? You think to yourself: 'If I love 'er——!'
Bah, that is all finished. Come, I tell you my funny story."