“There are many different kinds of love—as many as there are kinds of stars in the sky, Piotr. They are all beautiful, and created to illuminate the dark places of the world; for where there is no love there is no light, my little one, and people are always plunged in gloom.”
“You do speak awfully pretty, little darling Malou. I like to listen to what you say.”
“Thank you, Piotr; so now listen. In a little while your father and I—if you are very good—are going to make you a present of a little playmate. He will be very tiny and awkward at the beginning, but he will grow up fast, and be able to romp with you, and toss the paume like Henri-Quatre. Won’t you be pleased, Piotr?”
The boy, leaning against her knees, looked slowly up at her, his eyes heavy with doubt.
“Is that another fairy-tale, like the ones you tell me every day, little darling Malou?” he asked, the corners of his mouth beginning to droop.
“A fairy-tale? Why, no, Piotr, it’s a true, true story!”
“And,” the child continued, “will you truly, truly bring another Piotr here to play with me instead of you and Papa and Uncle Régis?”
Marguerite was not quite reassured. She knew her Piotr too well, and her thumbs began to prick oddly, as she claimed they invariably did when trouble was afoot.
“I imagined you’d like it very much,” she cautiously hazarded, not by any means certain of her ground and feeling her way about, so to speak.
Piotr’s strongly marked dark brows came together above his imperious little nose and his nostrils quivered.