Herr Katschuka was holding the white cap.
"Give it me that I may try it on."
"Can I help you?"
The hair was then dressed very high, so that Timéa required assistance.
"You don't know how; Athalie will be so good."
Timéa spoke quite simply, but the major shuddered at the pallor which overflowed Athalie's face at the words: he remembered how Athalie had once said to Timéa, "Come and put on my bridal veil!" And perhaps even she had not then thought what venom lay in the words. Athalie came to Timéa to help her with the cap, which required to be fastened with pins on both sides. Athalie's hand trembled—and she pricked Timéa's head with one of the pins.
"Oh, you stupid creature!" cried Timéa, jerking her head aside.
The same words, before the same man!
Timéa did not notice, but Herr Katschuka saw what a flash flew over Athalie's face—a volcanic outburst of diabolical rage, a glow of flaming spite, a dark cloud of purple shame; the muscles quivered as if the face was a nest of snakes stirred up by a rod. What murderous eyes! What compressed lips! What a bottomless depth of passion in that single look. Timéa regretted her hasty word almost before it had passed her lips, and hastened to atone for it. "Don't be angry, dear 'Thaly; I forgot myself," she said, turning to kiss her. "You'll forgive me—you are not angry?"
The next moment Athalie was as humble as a maid who has done some damage, and began in a flattering tone, "Oh, my dear pretty Timéa, don't you be angry; I would not hurt your dear little head for the world. How sweet you look in your cap, just like a fairy!" And she kissed Timéa's shoulder.