“Come in,” cried a voice, “the key’s in the door.”
Chérubin recognized Madame de Globeska’s accent; he opened the door and found himself face to face with the young woman.
Chichette Chichemann wore a very simple costume, into which a few odds and ends of lace, flowers and fur had been introduced, in an attempt to set it off; but they produced the contrary effect in the eyes of a good judge. But Chérubin was not as yet an expert in such matters; moreover, a man in love pays no heed to such details. What impressed him at once was Chichette’s pretty face, over which was perched the same velvet toque that she wore at the Cirque; and as he entered the room she greeted him with a pleasant smile, crying:
“Ah! here you are; that’s very lucky! for I was beginning to be awfully bored, all alone here!”
Encouraged by this greeting, Chérubin seated himself beside the young woman, and said to her in a very tender tone:
“Ah! madame, then you will pardon what my excessive love has led me to undertake? You have consented to trust my honor, to fly from him who—from him who—that is, from that gentleman who looked so ugly and who assuredly is not worthy to—to——”
Chérubin had never said so much at one time; he stopped, for he did not know how to finish his sentence. But Chichette gave him no time; she instantly replied:
“Yes, yes! I’ve fled from my tyrant. But let’s talk about something else.”
“She doesn’t want me to talk about her husband!” said Chérubin to himself; “she wants me to talk about something else—my love, no doubt. She is charming.—And so,” he continued aloud, “you do not regret having entrusted to me the care of your happiness, and being here at this moment, far from your native country [pays]?”
“My pays? oh, yes, I always regret my little pays! but I hope to see him again some day. Let’s talk about something else.”