“Ah, yes, yes!” he went on again, wanderingly, as he put his glass down on the table; “when I think that without these stories she would have been my wife—and now she will not be, for when she says No, it means no! She may be gay to look at, but she’s sad at heart. She has heaps of ideas that turn my blood. On my honor, I believe she will end in a convent! What! Phil, I laugh also; but I have no desire to laugh. It’s only by habit, you know; I feel more like weeping. And as to all those stories about glory which bothered me, how stupid one is to curdle one’s blood for so little! But my happiness is gone forever; I shall never marry Suzanne, never, never!”
Poufaille’s gestures emphasized his words; his fist came down heavily upon the table.
“Eh, over there! don’t break anything,” Suzanne cried. “Poufaille, you’re losing your head!”
“Yes, I’m losing it—I mean no!” answered Poufaille. “I’m only telling a story.”
“That’s no reason for getting into a rage,” Suzanne answered pleasantly.
“Yes, it is a reason,” Poufaille murmured. “There is reason to get into a rage—and break things!”
“Calm yourself; be quiet,” said Phil, who now regretted that he had come.
“Bah!” he thought; “is it worth my while listening to drunken maunderings?” But the hour for breaking up was near.
Phil stayed on, however, and Poufaille kept on talking.
“Ah!” he said, crossing his arms and looking Phil in the face; “after all, why didn’t you marry her? Yes, why? You loved Helia, and no one can say anything against her. You agree with me about that, I suppose?”