He looked at her for a few seconds, then slapped his thigh and, rising from his chair, bent himself double and gave vent to a roar of laughter. The tears stood in Yvonne’s eyes.
“Oh, but it’s comic. You don’t find it so?”
He leant back against the railings and laughed again in genuine merriment.
“Why, it’s all the more reason to come back to me. Ça y met du salé. Have you any children?”
Yvonne shook her head.
“Eh bien!” he exclaimed, triumphantly, stepping towards her with outstretched hands. But she shrank from him, outraged and bewildered.
“Never, never!” she cried. “Go away. Have pity on me, for God’s sake!”
Amédée Bazouge shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
“It’s a comedy, not a tragedy, ma chère. If you are happy, I am not going to be a spoilsport. It is not my way. Be tranquil with your good fat Englishman—I bet he’s an Englishman—In two years—bah! I can amuse myself always till then—my poor little Yvonne. No wonder I frightened you.”
The affair seemed to cause him intense amusement. A ray of light appeared to Yvonne.