"Mais sacré mille cochons, tu n'y comprends rien du tout!" cried Paragot, at that moment. I, knowing that this was not a proper expression to use before ladies, kept up the confidential glance for a second.
"I hope he didn't use such dreadful language."
"You couldn't in English, could you? He always spoke English to me. In French it is different. I like it. What did he say? 'Sacré mille cochons'!"
She imitated him delightfully. You have no idea what a dainty musical phrase this peculiarly offensive expletive became when uttered by her lips.
"After all," she said, "it only means 'sacred thousand pigs'—but why aren't you painting, Mr. Asticot?"
"Because you have got entirely out of pose, Madame."
Whereupon it was necessary to fix her head again, and my silly fingers tingled as they touched her hair. It is a good thing for a boy of nineteen to be romantically in love with Joanna. He can thus live spiritually beyond his means, without much danger of bankruptcy, and his extravagance shall be counted to him for virtue. Also if he is painting the princess of his dreams, he has such an inspiration as is given but to the elect, and what skill he is possessed of must succeed in its purpose.
One morning she found on her arrival a bowl of roses, which I had bought in the markets, placed against her chair on the dais. She uttered a little cry of pleasure and came to me both hands outstretched. Taking mine, she turned her head, in an adorable attitude, half upwards to Paragot.
"I believe it is Mr. Asticot who is in love with me, Gaston. Aren't you jealous?"
I blushed furiously. Paragot smiled down on her.