“I like hard work,” said Jean quickly. “I should not complain if it were even harder than it is.”
“And you would do much willingly for a friend?” Madame asked, playing with a large paper-cutter on a table beside her. “I am quite sure of that.”
“I would do anything in the world for you, Madame,” said Jean.
“I was talking of Louis,” said Madame.
Jean was silent. Madame’s little hands still played with the paper-cutter; they looked such helpless little hands, Jean longed to take them in one of his and take care of them always. He did not believe that any one could ever take care of Madame Torialli enough. If he had known it, his feeling for her was very much the same as Margot’s feelings for himself; for men can have the maternal instinct as well as women; and quite as uselessly.
“Poor Louis!” said Madame softly. “He is often misunderstood, I think. His parents had good blood in them, but his mother died young, and his father fell quickly into a bad type of existence. Louis has been brought up by chance; he has the instincts of his class, but I sometimes fear his manners—”
Jean leaned forward with a nervous movement of his hands.
“He does not appear to have these instincts always, Madame!” he said bluntly. Madame leaned back in her chair and sighed. She gave up the bronze paper-cutter, as if after all she couldn’t do anything with it.
“Ah!” she said. “Youth is so intolerant of appearances. You have not learned yet, my dear Jean, that appearances are almost always against the innocent—the others know how to use them! Louis’ manners are bad, that I grant you, but he has a good heart. It is for that we love him! My husband and I have learned its value in Paris. We can trust Louis.”
Jean said nothing. If he had said all that he thought, however, it is improbable that he could have enlightened Madame more plainly than his silence did.