"And they have no pocket-handkerchiefs to blow their noses," cried Paragot.
Whereat Blanquette's sense of humour being tickled she screamed with laughter. Narcisse sprang from sleep and barked, and there reigned great happiness, in which even I, still reproachful of my master, had my share.
"What a thing it is to be at home!" observed Paragot.
I had never heard him utter so domestic a sentiment.
"'After pleasure follows pain and after pain comes virtue.' This is virtue with a vengeance," I reflected cynically.
"Bien sûr," was Blanquette's inevitable response.
When she bade us good night, Paragot drew her down and kissed her cheek, which was an unprecedented mark of domesticity. Blanquette turned brick-red, and I suppose her foolish heart beat wildly. I have known my own heart to beat wildly for far less, and I am not a woman; but I have been in love.
"It is because you belong to me, my little Blanquette, and I am among mine own people. We understand one another, don't we? Et tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner."
When she had gone he smoked reflectively for a few moments.
"I never realised till now," said he, "the sense of stability and comfort that Blanquette affords me. She is unchangeable. God has given her a sense whereby she has pierced to the innermost thing that is I, and externals don't matter. She has got nearer the true Paragot than you, my son, although I know you love me."