“Because—because me, I am nossing. If I die no persons will care; but you, monsieur, you are artist, you are poet. You have many beautiful sings to do in the life. Ah, monsieur! have courage, courage. Promise me you nevaire do it some more.”
“All right,” I said gloomily; “I promise.”
She seemed reassured. Her child’s face as she looked at me was full of pity and sympathy.
“And now,” I said, “what’s to be done?”
“I do not know.”
She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. All at once a look of terror came into her face. Fearfully she peered over my shoulder, then she cowered back in the shadow of the wall.
“Oh, I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid.”
Involuntarily I turned in the direction of her stare, but saw no one.
“What are you afraid of?” I asked. “What’s the trouble?”
“It’s Monsieur O’Flazzaire! Oh, I am bad, bad girls! Why you not let me die? I have keel, I have keel.”