Blanchette peeped in from behind a silk curtain; her saucy babyish eyes were full of curiosity and wonder.
‘Tiens, Yseulte,’ she said, running up to her cousin, ‘I heard all papa said. Why should he want you at the ball, and why should you not go? You are a goose, such a goose! You know papa can always make mamma do what he chooses. He always threatens to send away M. de Prangins.’
Then Blanchette laughed, curling herself up in a little ball at her cousin’s feet.
‘You should not say such wicked things, Blanchette,’ said Yseulte; ‘and it is very shameful and dishonourable to listen anywhere unseen——’
Blanchette made a pied de nez with her little rosy fingers, with all the mockery and insolence of Gavrôche himself.
‘You are vulgar as well as wicked,’ said her cousin sadly, as she looked away.
‘It is distinguished to be vulgar, now,’ said the little ten-year-old Parisienne. ‘All the great ladies are, except Madame Napraxine; she is always wrapped up in herself. She has no entrain, she cares for nothing. She is not at all my model. Listen! If you were not such an idiot, you would see that petit papa is in love with you, ever so much in love! Why don’t you get all kinds of things out of him while he is in the humour? He would buy you all the Palais Royal if you knew how to manage him, and mamma will not say anything as long as the Marquis Raymond is here.’
‘Blanchette!’ cried the girl, indignantly. She rose to her feet; a flood of shame seemed to roll over her.
The insolent, malicious turquoise eyes of Blanchette amused themselves with her horror and trouble.