“And all the pretty little widows will have an eye on Monsieur,” replied this unabashed reprobate of a Pierre.
At this Monsieur Bouchard wished to frown, but could not. Instead, his mouth came open in a pleased grin.
“Well, well, that may or may not be true. At all events, last night Madame Vernet, by the merest accident, came into this apartment, mistaking it for her own.” Monsieur Bouchard paused. It was rather a difficult story to tell.
“By accident, did you say, Monsieur?”
“Altogether by accident. A paste necklace belonging to Madame de Meneval was lying on my table, and Madame Vernet inadvertently carried it off. She will no doubt return it this morning. Take care of it when it comes.”
“I will, sir, if it comes. But Monsieur will pardon me if I say I don’t expect it to come—that is, if I know anything about women.”
“But you don’t know anything about women,” curtly replied Monsieur Bouchard. Pierre was getting quite beside himself.
“True, Monsieur. I have been married thirty years. That is enough to convince the toughest sceptic who ever lived that he doesn’t know anything about women. But, all the same, Madame Vernet isn’t going to send that necklace back.”
Monsieur Bouchard turned pale and took an agitated turn about the room.
“Did Monsieur buy the paste necklace for—for—Mademoiselle Bouchard?” asked Pierre.