Then he came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Margot,” he said, “my little comrade, you have been deceiving me. No, do not tremble or cry! I know well enough why you have done so, you only wanted to spare me; but there are times when to be spared takes all the strength out of a man. Do not try to spare me any more, Margot; tell me the truth now, how much money a week do I cost you?”
“Money, Jean,” cried Margot, her eyes grew very large and round as they met his; she looked as innocent as only a woman bent on deception can look. “You think, then, that I am incapable of feeding you on eight francs a week,” she cried. “It is to complain of my housekeeping that you have brought me in here. How unkind, Jean!” But Jean merely shook his head at her.
“Tell me who it is that blacks my boots,” he said sternly.
“Do you suppose that I have no friends,” asked Margot, “no admirers who are anxious to do me a little turn? Apparently you think I have no attractions, and the son of Madame Martin does not get up at six in the morning, and run my errands, to be repaid thankfully by half a smile out of a shut window?”
Jean hesitated, but he felt relieved. He did not dream that Madame Martin’s son was a fine invention of Margot’s called upon to do service for one day only and not to be rewarded at all.
“Any man would be glad to do anything for you,” Jean said, smiling, “but if I were the son of Madame Martin, I think I should prefer to black your boots, and not those of the young man who is on the right side of the shut window!”
“I do not study his preferences,” replied Margot demurely.
“No?” said Jean. “But, Margot, I am going to ask you to study mine. I cannot stay here another day unless you will take twenty francs a week for my board; you see I put it very low to please you. It is no use your shaking your head; either you agree or our little scheme together ends. It is true,” said Jean half to himself, “that I still have to earn that twenty francs,” but even now that seemed to Jean the least important part of any programme.
“Jean,” asked Margot, after a little pause, “you will not think me curious or indiscreet, but did you not tell me that you sometimes accompanied Lucien le Page and Du Buissant? Surely such great artists would pay you!”
Jean smiled bitterly. “They would pay me if they would employ me, chérie,” he answered, “but you forget that they are friends of Madame de Brances, and lately I have not found them at home when I called. Last week I went so far as to write to Lucien; he replied very politely that he was not in need of an accompagnateur. It is the same with them all, they will not employ me again.”