"Always?" he demanded.
"Yes, always, always, while you are here, in Le Havre. I would have no other boy but you. Ah, if you would! You do not know how one tires of the music-hall, the drinks, the smiles! I would do just all you please—be gay, be solemn, talk, be silent, just as you please! Oh, if you would!"
Half in and half out of her dress, she stood there, pleading. Peter looked closely at the little face with its rouge and powder.
"You hate that!" she exclaimed, with quick intuition. "See, it is gone. I use it no more, only a leetle, leetle, for the night." And she ran across to the basin, dipped a little sponge in water, passed it over her face, and turned to him triumphantly.
Peter sighed. "Little girl," he said sadly, hardly knowing that he spoke.
"I cannot save myself: how can I save you?"
"Pouf!" she cried. "Save! What do you mean?" She drew herself up with an absurd gesture. "You think me a bad girl? No, I am not bad; I go to church. Le bon Dieu made us as we are; it is nécessaire."
They stood before each other, a strange pair, the product of a strange age. God knows what the angels made of it. But at any rate Peter was honest. He thought of Julie, and he would not cast a stone.
There came a light knock at the door. The girl disregarded it, and ran to him. "You will come again?" she said in low tones. "Promise me that you will! I will not ask you for anything; you can do as you please; but come again! Do come again!"
Peter passed his hand over her hair. "I will come if I can," he said; "but the Lord knows why."
The knock came again, a little louder. The girl smiled and held her face up. "Kiss me," she demanded.