She made no answer, and began again to twist the wool between her needles, but nervously and as if her thoughts were sad.
To change the conversation I told them the story of my twofold mishap at the National Library and at M. Charnot’s. I tried to be funny, and fancied I succeeded. The old lady smiled faintly. Lampron remained grave, and tossed his head impatiently. I summed my story thus:
“Net gain: two enemies, one of them charming.”
“Oh, enemies!” said Sylvestre, “they spring up like weeds. One can not prevent them, and great sorrows do not come from them. Still, beware of charming enemies.”
“She hates me, I swear. If you could have seen her!”
“And you?”
“Me? She is nothing to me.”
“Are you sure?”
He put the question gravely, without looking in my face, as he twisted a paper spill.
I laughed.