Peter spoke the moment the door was closed. “Madame,” he said, “you saw that scene. Spare his wife and child? He is not worth your anger.”
“Ah, Ciel!” cried Celestine, emotionally. “Do you think so lowly of me, that you can imagine I would destroy your sacrifice? Your romantic, your dramatic, mon Dieu! your noble sacrifice? Non, non. Celestine Lacour could never do so. She will suffer cruelty, penury, insults, before she behaves so shamefully, so perfidiously.”
Peter did not entirely sympathize with the Frenchwoman’s admiration for the dramatic element, but he was too good a lawyer not to accept an admission, no matter upon what grounds. He held out his hand promptly. “Madame,” he said, “accept my thanks and admiration for your generous conduct.”
Celestine took it and shook it warmly.
“Of course,” said Peter. “Mr. D’Alloi owes you an ample income.”
“Ah!” cried Celestine, shrugging her shoulders. “Do not talk of him—I leave it to you to make him do what is right.”
“And you will return to France?”
“Yes, yes. If you say so?” Celestine looked at Peter in a manner known only to the Latin races. Just then a side door was thrown open, and a boy of about twelve years of age dashed into the room, followed by a French poodle.
“Little villain!” cried Celestine. “How dare you approach without knocking? Go. Go. Quickly.”
“Pardon, Madame,” said the child. “I thought you still absent.”