“Oh, no!” said madame, with a sly smile, “it was no wolf that made that mark on monsieur’s face; it looks like something entirely different; don’t you think so, my dear love?”
“That looks to me exactly like the scratch of a finger-nail,” said Athalie the vivacious, looking very closely at Auguste; “isn’t it that, monsieur?”
“You are not mistaken, madame.”
“So you have been fighting, have you, monsieur?” said Madame Destival.
“No, madame, I simply met a very pretty little boy, who had broken the bowl in which he was carrying soup to his father. I gave him a piece of money to console him; at that, in his joy he embraced me; he patted my cheeks with his little hands, and he—he accidentally scratched me a little. That is a faithful account of my adventure, mesdames.”
Madame Destival bit her lip and glanced at her companion, who smiled. It was evident that they both doubted the truth of Dalville’s story; but he cared very little what they might think. Taking advantage of this brief pause in the conversation, Monin went to Auguste, whom he had met twice at his neighbor’s and said to him in the most amiable manner:
“How’s your health?”
“Very good, Monsieur Monin, except for this scratch, which is not dangerous.”
“You are joking, monsieur! I tell you finger-nail scratches are not to be trifled with.—Do you use snuff?”
“Thanks.”