"For how long?" asked Thérèse, staring out of the window.
"One month, two, three—how do I know, my cabbage? It is business of the State, and in such matters, you should know more than I."
"When does he go?"
"To-morrow," said Rosalie cheerfully, for to torment Thérèse was a most exhilarating employment, and one that she much enjoyed. It vindicated her own virtue, and at the same time indulged her taste for gossip.
Thérèse sprang up, and paced the small shop with something wild in her gait.
"Why does he go?" she asked excitedly. "He used to smile at me, to look when he passed, and now he goes another way; he turns his head, he elbows me aside. Does he think I am one of those tame milk-and-water misses, who can be taken up one minute and dropped the next? If he thinks that, he is very much mistaken. Who has taken him from me? I insist on knowing; I insist that you tell me!"
"Chut," said Rosalie, with placid pleasure, "he never was yours to take, and that you know as well as I."
"He looked at me," and Thérèse's coarse contralto thrilled tragically over the words.
"Half Paris does that." Rosalie paused and counted her stitches. "One, two, three, four, knit two together. Why not? you are good to look at. No one has denied it that I know of."
"He smiled." Her eyes glared under the close-drawn brows, but Rosalie laughed.