Now, this was very provoking of the Major, but something in his kind eyes, his way of standing up for Victor, his candid praise of herself, gave Léontine a sudden impulse to tell him the whole story of what was weighing on her and perplexing her and had driven her out to Melun at that hour of the night. She knew all about him, what a generous, sympathetic fellow he was, in spite of his primness and propriety—in short, that he was a dear old thing. So, with eyes flashing with mischief, and with smiles dimpling her fair face, Léontine said, demurely:
“I have still another name besides Satanita and Queen of the Harem-Scarem. Can’t you guess it?”
“No. I am not a clairvoyant.”
“I am—” Léontine rose, with her whole face sparkling with impish delight—“I am Léontine, Madame de Meneval, wife of your friend, Victor de Meneval. Yonder is my picture. Here am I.”
Poor P. M. P! He stared at her for a full minute, glared wildly about him, and then, jumping up, made a dash for the door, from which Léontine, laughing till the tears ran down her cheeks, dragged him back.
“What are you running away for?” she asked, forcing him to a seat beside her.
“Because—because—” the Major tore his hair, “oh, de Meneval will certainly shoot me when he hears that I chucked you under the chin!”
“But he won’t hear it, unless you tell him. And I chucked you under the chin, remember.”
Major Fallière, burying his head in his hands, groaned aloud, and then all at once the absurdity of the thing struck him, and he burst into a howl of laughter.
Léontine joined him. They laughed and laughed, and when they would get a little quiet Léontine would motion as if to chuck him under the chin again, and Fallière would go off into renewed spasms.