"Oh! this is too much! to make such a statement as that! I am terribly sorry that I destroyed the insolent letter, but I know it by heart."
Monsieur Plays had returned to his desk, and was mumbling between his teeth:
"Five and six are eleven, and eight makes nineteen—and eight makes nineteen——"
"And then, it was so idiotic: 'your face is constantly before me, calf's head en tortue,'—isn't that very refined?—and—'I send you an intimate friend—perfectly fresh.'—Ah! your friend was fresh, and no mistake! Such a little fool! and how I treated him!"
"What you say perplexes me entirely. I cannot understand it. There must be some mistake—you must have read some other letter."
"Oh, no! it was addressed to me all right!"
"Nineteen and twenty-four make forty-three; put down three and carry—and carry——"
"Be quiet, Monsieur Plays; you are insufferable with your addition! What do I care what you carry? Hold your tongue!"
Monsieur Plays subsided, with an air of consternation, nor did Albert say anything more; but he produced the lovely bouquet, which he had thus far held behind his back.
When Herminie saw it, her face softened, and it retained only a slight pouting expression as she said: