“Nothing, oh! nothing, madame!”
And the young man tried to dissemble a wry face caused by a second pang, less sharp, it is true, but followed by internal rumblings which portended a violent tempest.
Meanwhile, being completely engrossed by his sensations, and disturbed by the thought of the possible sequel, Chérubin ceased to take any part in the conversation and dropped Madame Célival’s hand on the couch.
“In heaven’s name, what is the matter, monsieur?” murmured the pretty widow, in a half-reproachful, half-melting tone. “You seem distraught, absent-minded; you say nothing to me. Do you know that that is not agreeable on your part?”
“Mon Dieu, madame, I assure you that nothing is the matter; you are mistaken.”
And Chérubin did what he could to mask another contortion; he was attacked by gripes which fairly tortured him; he realized that he had the colic, and not for anything on earth would he have had Madame Célival guess what had happened to him.
However, it is not a crime to feel indisposed! But we weak mortals, who seek sometimes to exalt ourselves to the rank of gods, we blush because we are subject to all the infirmities of the simplest of God’s creatures; there are times when we are sorely embarrassed to be at once the man of the world and the natural man. Poor Chérubin found himself in that predicament; the plums were playing him a very treacherous trick.
Madame Célival could not misunderstand the young marquis’s tone. Piqued, too, because she could no longer read in his eyes either affection or desire, she exclaimed after a moment:
“Evidently, monsieur, you find it dull with me.”
“Why, madame, I swear to you that that is not true—far from it; but——”