“But you would prefer to be with Madame de Valdieri, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, no! that is not where I would like to be at this moment!”
“Indeed! where would you like to be at this moment, monsieur?”
Chérubin did not know what to reply; he endured with difficulty another sharp pain, and felt the cold perspiration standing on his forehead. He cut a very sad figure at that moment, and did not in the least resemble a lover.
Madame Célival looked at him; she compressed her lips angrily, and cried:
“Oh! what an extraordinary face you are making! Such a thing was never seen before—by me, at all events. Come, monsieur, speak, explain yourself; something is the matter, certainly.”
And the fair widow, still impelled by the tender sentiment which spoke in Chérubin’s favor, walked toward him and would have taken his hand; but he hastily drew back, faltering in a stifled voice:
“Oh! don’t touch me, madame, I implore you!”
“What does that mean, monsieur? I beg you to believe that I have not the slightest desire to touch you,” retorted Madame Célival, offended by the alarm depicted on the young man’s face. “But, monsieur, I am justified in being surprised by the ill humor that has suddenly taken possession of you; I did not expect that I should—er—frighten you by showing you what pleasure it gave me to entertain you.—Ha! ha! it is most amusing, on my word!”
Instead of replying to what she said, Chérubin abruptly sprang to his feet, muttering: