“Why, I don’t think so.”
“As if you knew anything about it! I tell you that she’s a horror, with her princess’s airs! Ah! if she expects to impose on me, she’s very much mistaken. The sinner, to insist on speaking to Auguste in private! Just to tease her, I’m going to eat some more pie, even if I die of indigestion.”
Virginie returned to the salon, resumed her seat on the couch and attacked the breakfast once more. The neighbor seated herself on a chair at the other end of the room, and while making a pretence of looking out into the street, watched Virginie’s every movement from the corner of her eye. Bertrand meanwhile remained in the outer room, leaving the ladies to adjust matters as they chose. As she ate, Virginie hummed snatches of comic opera airs; Madame Saint-Edmond did not make a sound. This situation lasted for some time. At last Virginie, beginning to lose patience, called Bertrand and said to him:
“Your pie isn’t at all nice; the last time I breakfasted with Auguste, we had a much better one.”
Bertrand simply removed the scanty remains of the pie, saying to himself:
“I’d have sworn that she found it good!”
“Bertrand,” said Virginie, after a moment, “will you give me a little water and some sugar, please? It will do me a lot of good.”
“She must need it,” said the neighbor to herself, with a sarcastic smile.
“By the way, my little Bertrand, you have some orange flower water, haven’t you? It will allay nervous excitement.”
Virginie laughed when she said this, and was evidently making fun of Madame Saint-Edmond; but that lady seemed to pay no heed to what she said.