One afternoon I was greatly surprised to see him enter the linen-room, where I sat alone, musing sadly over my work. In the morning I had had a painful scene with M. Xavier, and was still under the influence of the impression it had left on me. Monsieur closed the door softly, placed his bag on the large table near a pile of cloth, and, coming to me, took my hands and patted them. Under his blinking eyelid his eye turned, like that of an old hen dazzled by the sunlight. It was enough to make one die of laughter.
"Célestine," said he, "for my part, I prefer to call you Célestine. That does not offend you, does it?"
I could hardly keep from bursting.
"Why, no, Monsieur," I answered, holding myself on the defensive.
"Well, Célestine, I think you charming! There!"
"Really, Monsieur?"
"Adorable, in fact; adorable, adorable!"
"Oh! Monsieur!"
His fingers had left my hand, and were caressing my neck and chin with fat and soft little touches.
"Adorable, adorable!" he whispered.