“You’ve read the figures wrong!” he asserted.
She showed him the figures, but she kept her hand over the rest of Monsieur Flaubert’s letter.
“There’s some mistake,” Jean urged.
“No—” said Margot. Then she said timidly: “It’s not the kind of thing a girl can make a mistake about, Jean. I wish it was.”
Jean looked at her quickly.
“You remember Monsieur Picot?” Margot went on in a very low voice. “Monsieur Flaubert offers to teach me—in that way, Jean—instead of the money, I mean! If I can’t pay—and of course I can’t pay four hundred francs down—but don’t look like that, Jean!”
Jean, however, continued to look like that—his one overwhelming desire was to have the thick, pink neck of Monsieur Louis Flaubert between his fingers. He no longer resented Margot’s trouble; for the moment it was his own, he had forgotten Gabrielle—all he remembered was his little comrade facing Paris, with her intrepid eyes—it made it no less wonderful that she faced it in great part for the sake of Madame Selba, with the brandy bottle behind her; and to see that little figure menaced and outraged by Monsieur Flaubert was more than Jean felt called upon to bear. In the explosion that followed Margot became conscious of three things—and the first was wholly good, because it showed her how much Jean still cared for her; and the second was magnificent, because it proved Jean to be what she knew he was—a knight and hero; but the third was not quite so consolatory, because it occurred to Margot that in Jean’s eyes the Toriallis had no fault at all—apparently they were to be avenged too. It was obvious that Jean considered that Flaubert had deceived them. Particularly Madame, of course—this lâcheté on the part of Louis would be incredible to her!
“Yes—I also think,” murmured Margot, “that this would be incredible to Madame.”
“But of course!” said Jean; “all evil would be incredible to her!”
Margot said nothing—she wondered if Jean knew how old Madame Torialli was.