Although very pale, she gazed fondly at him with her great eyes—eyes that seemed to devour him with admiration.
“Come here, my poor boy. . . . Come here, my sweet little soldier! . . . I owe you something.”
And turning her back on the maid, she asked him to come with her round the corner. It was just the same there. The cross street was just as thronged as the avenue. But what did she care for the stare of the curious! Rapturously she flung her arms around his neck, blind and insensible to everything and everybody but him.
“There. . . . There!” And she planted on his face two vehement, sonorous, aggressive kisses.
Then, trembling and shuddering, she suddenly weakened, and fumbling for her handkerchief, broke down in desperate weeping.
CHAPTER II
IN THE STUDIO
Upon opening the studio door one afternoon, Argensola stood motionless with surprise, as though rooted to the ground.
An old gentleman was greeting him with an amiable smile.