“Here are the things,” said Gabrielle lightly. She was smiling a little, she saw that Jean dared not meet her eyes, and she felt him tremble. She had given him her hands, it was true, but she had surrendered nothing; she was apt to give a great deal, but she had never been known to surrender—the surrendering invariably came from the person to whom she gave. This is the secret of success in passion. Jean had forgotten the existence of Margot; all the mind he had at present and all his strength were needed if he was to keep his head. Meanwhile he took up Gabrielle’s manicure things, and if he did not make a clumsy job of it, it was entirely due to the fact to which Madame had already alluded, that he had great skill in the use of his hands. Still, Gabrielle could have done it better herself. Gabrielle let a silence come between them, but she saw that she must not let it last very long. She watched the colour rise in Jean’s face with her innocent, untroubled eyes.
“I wish I could believe that you came here only to see me,” she said at last. “But I don’t. I am sure you had some other intention, or you would have been at work long ago. You see, I know what a faithful workman my little Jean is.”
“I want only to see you, and if I work it is only for you,” muttered Jean. “And if——”
“No, that little box on the right,” said Madame coolly. “Torialli looked all over Paris for it. You see, I wanted it to match the rest. You have no idea how difficult it is to get a perfect match in mother-of-pearl. Well! what were you saying? Oh yes! you work only for me—that is charming of you, my dear boy. And now I think you’ve worked on that finger long enough! Not even a genius like you can climb past perfection. Then there is nothing you want to ask me?”
“If I dared,” said Jean, suddenly crushing the hand he held.
“No! don’t spoil your work!” said Madame quickly. Jean pulled himself together. He dragged Margot’s name into his mind and held it there.
“Yes, yes,” he said; “there is something about a poor girl in trouble. I want your help, Gabrielle.”
Again she let her Christian name pass; he hardly dared to believe it, but perhaps she had not heard.
“Ah! I am glad you came to me,” said Madame. “Tell me about her, Jean! it’s not the dear funny little person who’s to marry the grocer, is it? I rather hope it is, you know. I should always love her for having nursed you when you were ill.”
“Yes, Madame, it is my friend—it is Margot Selba,” said Jean, thinking how differently in her tolerant sweetness Gabrielle spoke of little Margot from foolish Margot’s vindictive unreasoning bitterness about Madame!