And Mademoiselle Zizi threw herself back on the divan, stretching out her legs and arms, gnashing her teeth, and wriggling like one possessed; whereupon Beau Saint-Arthur quickly seized a carafe, exclaiming in a tone of deep distress:
“The deuce! now she’s going to have a nervous attack; that’s very pleasant. The devil take you, Jéricourt, you’re the cause of it all; you spoke so roughly to her! Look, see how rigid she is!”
“That will pass away!” replied Jéricourt very calmly, helping himself to some truffled calves’ brains.
“Canaille!” muttered Mademoiselle Zizi, still rigid.
And Alfred, as he approached his charmer with a glass of cold water, was repulsed by her so sharply that a part of the contents of the glass splashed in his face, while the young woman muttered, taking pains to grind her teeth together:
“I want my blue phial with the opal stopper; I must have it.”
“Where is it, dear love? Shall I feel in your pocket?”
“Don’t come near me. My phial is at my rooms, on my dressing table in the boudoir.”
“Very good—I’ll send a waiter.”
“No, monsieur, I insist on your going yourself; the waiter would make some mistake.”