"But you and me, Asticot, it is so droll."
"If you put it that way," I admitted, "it is. But the concierge doesn't think it possible that you are not my maîtresse. Why otherwise should you be running in and out of my room, as if it belonged to you?"
"You will be bringing a maîtresse of your own here soon, and then you won't want Blanquette any longer."
I dismissed the idea as one too remote for contemplation. At the same time I reflected that I kissed a pretty model at Janot's when we met alone on the stairs. I wondered whether the diabolical perspicacity of women had seen traces of the kiss on my lips.
"I disturb you?" she asked drawing up my other wooden chair to the deal table and sitting down.
"Why, no. I can work while you talk."
She put her elbow on a couple of pickled gherkins that remained casually on the table after a perambulatory meal.
"Oh, how dirty men are! You are worse than the Master. Oh la! la! and he puts his boots and his dirty plates together on his bed! It is time that you did have a maîtresse to keep the place in order."
"I believe you really do want to come here in that capacity," I said laughingly.
She flushed at the jest and drew herself up. "You have no right to say that, Asticot. I would sooner be the Master's servant than the mistress or even the wife of any man living. He is everything to me, my little Asticot, everything, do you hear? although he loves me just as he loves you and Narcisse. Il ne faut pas te moquer de moi. You must not laugh at me. It hurts me."