He shook his head. "Ah, no—I fear I am pleading for myself. For, if you reinstate the girl, it will prove that you forgive the man—and I want your forgiveness so much!" He fell at her feet.
"Does your engagement for eight o'clock press, monsieur?" murmured the lady, smiling. "If you could dine here again to-night, I might relent by degrees."
"And she is adorable!" he told Pitou. "I passed the most delicious evening of my life!" "It is fortunate," observed Pitou, "for that, and your uncle's undying enmity, are all you have obtained by your imposture. Remember that the evening cost two thousand francs a year!"
"Ah, misanthrope," cried Tricotrin radiantly, "there must be a crumpled roseleaf in every Eden!"
THE FATAL FLOROZONDE
Before Pitou, the composer, left for the Hague, he called on Théophile de Fronsac, the poet. La Voix Parisienne had lately appointed de Fronsac to its staff, on condition that he contributed no poetry.
"Good-evening," said de Fronsac. "Mon Dieu! what shall I write about?"
"Write about my music," said Pitou, whose compositions had been rejected in every arrondissement of Paris.
"Let us talk sanely," demurred de Fronsac. "My causerie is half a column short. Tell me something interesting."
"Woman!" replied Pitou.