“And you are right. It would be downright murder not to carry that rose-bud away from that old caterpillar!”
“Carry her away! What! do you think that it will be necessary——”
“Hush! let me act; I will arrange the whole business.”
The play came to an end. Monsieur Poterne donned his umbrella-like hat, and gave the fair Chichette his arm. She, although sorely embarrassed in her costume, succeeded in holding her hand out straight behind her.
Daréna and his companion walked on the heels of the Poles, who took care not to turn around. Daréna almost compelled Chérubin to seize the hand which the lady obligingly held behind her back, and the young man turned crimson as he whispered in his friend’s ear:
“Ah! she squeezed my hand! she is squeezing it again! she keeps squeezing it!”
“Parbleu! what did I tell you?” rejoined Daréna. “Sympathy—I believe that you were made for each other.”
As he spoke, Daréna kicked Poterne’s legs viciously, to make him walk faster and force Mademoiselle Chichette to drop Chérubin’s hand, which she seemed to have resolved never to release.
The so-called foreigners entered a cab. Chérubin and Daréna took another and told the driver to follow the first, which stopped in front of a modest, furnished lodging house on Rue Vieille-du-Temple.
“Good,” said Daréna; “we know where they live, and that is enough for to-night. To-morrow you must write an impassioned letter to that Pole; I will undertake to see that she gets it without the knowledge of her husband, and I promise you that she will reply to it.”