“You sha’n’t do that!” she commanded. “He is quite beside himself. You’ll only make it worse. Give him to me. I know what to do when he is like this!”
What would have followed cannot be conjectured had not Garrassime, attracted by the noise, and guessing what was happening, run into the room and, without a word, taken hold of Piotr and carried him off without further ceremony, still kicking and yelling.
Basil, for an instant completely dumfounded, remained planted, as it were, in the middle of the room, while Marguerite, thoroughly ashamed of her momentary loss of self-control, hung her head and twisted the ends of her peignoir ribbons, vainly trying to recapture herself.
“Well!” said Basil at last. “Well, this is a pretty state of things! Is he often like that, Marguerite? I never knew—my poor little girl!”
With difficulty she prevented her voice from trembling. “No; very rarely,” she said, shortly.
“Then what made him burst out like that? But here, for pity’s sake, sit down, Marguerite. This is pleasant for you!”
“No! Not if you will only not interfere,” she faltered. “I couldn’t bear to see you two aux-prises. It was my fault. I tried to—to prepare him for what is—what is coming, that’s all.”
She had gone back to her seat in the window and glanced imploringly up at him. Quickly he joined her and, bending before her, took her little icy hands in one of his.
“I beg your pardon from my heart. I beg your pardon, Marguerite,” he said, penitently. “You should not have had to suffer this!”
“My poor boy!” she tremulously murmured. “It is from you I should have wished to keep it concealed. He is such a fine little chap! He can’t help what he does now and then, and punishment would only make it worse. I know it. I am convinced that force would be folly to attempt. Don’t you ever try it!”