"No," snapped Madame. "I have not."
"Then do it now, my Queen," he implored. "Forgive me, and then do one other thing."
"What is that?" enquired Madame.
"Marry me," replied Rivoli, seizing Madame's pudgy fist.
The eyes of the drunken man were on him, and the American watching, thought of the eyes of the snake that lies with broken back watching its slayer. There was death and the hate of Hell in them, and while he shuddered, his heart sang with hope.
"Marry me, Véronique," he repeated. "Have pity on me and end this suspense. See you, I grow thin," and he raised his mighty arms in a pathetic gesture.
Madame glanced at the poor man's stomach. There was no noticeable maigreur.
"And what of the Neapolitan hussy and your goings on in the Café de la Légion?" she asked.
"To Hell with the putain," he almost shouted. "I am like other men--and I have been to her dive like the rest. Marry me and save me from this loose irregular soldier's life. Do you think I would stray from thee, Beloved, if thou wert mine?"
"Not twice," said Madame.