“Are you going to do it?”
Camille suppressed a yawn. “I don’t know. Qui vivra verra.”
He was glad when they were all gone, Gontrand and Tor di Rocca and the rest, and he could stretch himself and sigh, and sing at the top of his voice:
“‘Nicholas, je vais me pendre
Qu’est-ce que tu vas dire de cela?
Si vous vous pendez ou v’vous pendez pas
Ça m’est ben egal, Mam’zelle.
Si vous vous pendez ou v’vous pendez pas
Oh, laissez moi planter mes chous!’”
When Olive came out of the inner room presently he told her that he had sold the “Jeune Fille.” “The Duchess has nearly commissioned me to paint her Mélanie. It went off well, don’t you think so? Come at nine to-morrow.”
“Yes, if you want me. Good-night, M’sieur Camille,” she said. “Are you coming, Rosina?”
“Why do you wait for her?” he asked curiously. “I should not have thought you had much in common.”
“She is my friend. She knows I do not care to be alone.”