"No, you don't hate me! No, you don't hate me! I know it! I knew it!…"
"Lucie," I said, "before we proceed, please let me put some of these papers in my pockets."
"Alex! Don't remind me of that! How did you dare to write such stories about me? You can't blame me, can you?"
"Perhaps I don't—for some pages you destroyed. How about the chart, and about the?…"
She covered my mouth with her hands. "If we recollect everything it will be endless. And besides I don't think I took anything from you. Let's forget! I'll forgive you, if you promise me not to write nasty stories about your Lucie."
I promised, and consented, of course. How can I do otherwise? No use!
I put her near me, poured her some tea and offered her the cookies.
For a time we looked at each other. She certainly looked like a peasant girl!
"How do you like this costume?" she said. "Next bal masqué I certainly will wear this kind, you may be sure. Of course all of this, and that must be chiffon, and silk, and…." A woman cannot get on without these chats. On the other hand—woman speaks to the man about it with a concealed contempt: what does a man understand? She does not get angry when she sees that the man does not listen; he only looks.
"Now,"—she said, gazing around with a dear grimace,—"again in your element, in dirt? What shall I do with you, Alex? I can't stand it!"