"But dear Master," I implored. He put both hands behind his head and threw out his arms in a great gesture.
"Boy! Can't you see," cried he, "that I am in agony of soul?"
I bent my head and went away. God knows what he said to Henri Quatre. I suppose each of us has a pet Gethsemane of his own.
One night, a few weeks later, Blanquette appeared in my little student's attic. Fired by the example of some of my comrades at Janot's who showed glistening five-franc pieces as the rewards of industry, I was working up a drawing which I fondly hoped I could sell to a comic paper. Youth is the period of insensate ambitions.
I put down my charcoal as Blanquette entered, bare-headed—wise girl, she scorned hats and bonnets—and as neatly dressed as her figure daily growing dumpier would allow. She was laughing.
"Guess what your concierge said."
"That it was improper for you to come to see me at this hour of the night."
"Improper? Bah!" cried Blanquette, for whom such conventions existed not. "But she told me that it was un joli petit amant that I had upstairs. What an idea!" She laughed again.
"You find that funny?" I asked, my dignity somewhat ruffled. "I suppose I am as pretty a little lover as anyone else."