“And what did you expect? I’m an honest woman, I am!” said Victoire sharply. “I wasn’t brought up to do things like that, thank goodness! And to begin at my time of life!”
“It’s true, and I often ask myself how you bring yourself to stick to me,” said Lupin, in a reflective, quite impersonal tone. “Please pour me out another cup of coffee.”
“That’s what I’m always asking myself,” said Victoire, pouring out the coffee. “I don’t know—I give it up. I suppose it is because I’m fond of you.”
“Yes, and I’m very fond of you, my dear Victoire,” said Lupin, in a coaxing tone.
“And then, look you, there are things that there’s no understanding. I often talked to your poor mother about them. Oh, your poor mother! Whatever would she have said to these goings-on?”
Lupin helped himself to another cutlet; his eyes twinkled and he said, “I’m not sure that she would have been very much surprised. I always told her that I was going to punish society for the way it had treated her. Do you think she would have been surprised?”
“Oh, nothing you did would have surprised her,” said Victoire. “When you were quite a little boy you were always making us wonder. You gave yourself such airs, and you had such nice manners of your own—altogether different from the other boys. And you were already a bad boy, when you were only seven years old, full of all kinds of tricks; and already you had begun to steal.”
“Oh, only sugar,” protested Lupin.
“Yes, you began by stealing sugar,” said Victoire, in the severe tones of a moralist. “And then it was jam, and then it was pennies. Oh, it was all very well at that age—a little thief is pretty enough. But now—when you’re twenty-eight years old.”
“Really, Victoire, you’re absolutely depressing,” said Lupin, yawning; and he helped himself to jam.