“I would hate it!” he said, decisively; “so don’t bring a disgusting brat here, little darling Malou, or I’ll pitch him in the oubliettes under the great round tower. I swear I will!”
She noticed a nervous twitching of his left eyebrow, which she was acquainted with as a very bad sign of the weather, and she hastened to try and smooth things down.
“Don’t talk like that, darling,” she said, stroking the rebellious head. “You know very well that you would never do anything so wicked; besides, you might get to be awfully fond of your little playmate.”
With a sudden brutality of gesture utterly disconcerting, Piotr snatched the starry branches from Marguerite’s lap and threw them helter-skelter across the room. Then turning, he fled toward the door.
“Piotr,” she called, very calmly, “come back to Malou!”
She had not stirred, her face was white; but there was no quiver in her voice, and the child, his hand already on the knob, paused at full tension, his back toward her.
“Come back here, please!” Again she did not raise her tone, but there was a new quality in it; and very reluctantly, his face dark as thunder, Piotr retraced his steps one by one until he stood within a foot of her.
“My little Piotr,” she murmured, very tenderly, “are you going to be bad with me, too?”
No answer. Her heart for a moment misgave her, but she held out her arms to him with infinite gentleness.
“Don’t you love Malou any more, Piotr?” she asked, almost in a whisper.