"Here in Paris?" Durand asked, impatiently.
"No, monsieur, in Boulogne," Madame Perrault answered, and Jules saw an expression of wonder and pain cross her daughter's face.
Durand was rubbing his silk hat with his glove, and regarding it intently.
"Then," he said, looking up quickly, "there must have been some adventures—some admirers, that have followed Mademoiselle, perhaps, eh?" he added, leering insinuatingly at the mother.
Madame smiled, and the face of the acrobat turned pink. Jules wanted to seize the little journalist by the neck, and throw him out of the door.
"Ah, in Bucharest," cried Madame, "the young—"
"Mamma!"
Madame Perrault shrugged her shoulders, and smiled suggestively. "Perhaps we'd better not speak of that. Blanche is a good girl," she added, patting her daughter on the back. "She's good to her mother, and she's good to her sisters. Ah, ma chère!"
The girl had turned her head away. Durand offered her his hand gallantly, and then beamed on the mother. "I will come and see you some time, if you will give me permission," he said condescendingly.
"Some Sunday," Madame Perrault replied. "It's the only day when Blanche is free. And you will bring your friend, perhaps, if he is still in Paris," she added amiably, with a quick glance and smile at the journalist from Marseilles. Then she produced two cards and passed them to the callers.