"That's long ago," she shrank slightly, then rallied herself to the task. "I went there as a bride, you see. My husband was head of a kind of syndicate. It's a nice place in the Winter-time—there's a large French Colony there. And plenty of English people too—it's quite gay—with music—and cards."
McTaggart smiled to himself. At the words he made a shrewd guess at Gustave's business in Algiers. But Fantine skillfully led the talk through devious channels back to himself. Once launched on the stream he told her of his early years, his parents' death, his college career, and the growing boredom of his days.
And between the lines Fantine gleaned all that she needed; his obvious means and that fastidiousness of his—an important factor in her game.
The clock ticked on and the fire died low. The little room seemed shut off from the world.
"It sounds lonely..." she said at last—"You poor boy!—I understan'."
"Do you?" he leaned eagerly nearer. "No one cares—that's about it!" His arm stole round her. "Fantine ... dear, it's in your hands to cure, you know."
He stooped down and their lips met ...
The clock struck with a silver chime, ringing out the midnight hour; and Fantine, startled, drew away. Not yet—the warning rang in her ears.
But McTaggart, fired by that close embrace, stung too by her shrinking gesture, caught her roughly in his arms.
"Pierrot!"—she gasped—"wait ... wait! There's something—I must tell you—first..."