Mme. Gougasse’s little eyes glittered.
“Bien sûr. And it’s quite settled?”
“Absolutely.”
“And it will be all for me?”
“Half,” said Aristide.
“You promised all to me for the redecoration of the ceiling of the café.”
“Three thousand will be sufficient, dear angel. What? I know these contractors and decorators. The more you pay them, the more abominable will they make the ceiling. Leave it to me. I, Aristide, will guarantee you a ceiling like that of the Sistine Chapel for two thousand francs.”
She smiled and bridled, so as to appear perfectly well-bred in my presence. The act of smiling caused the tuft of hair on her jaw to twitch horribly. A cold shiver ran down my back.
“Don’t you think, monseigneur,” she asked, archly, “that M. Pujol should give me the four thousand francs as a wedding-present?”
“Most certainly,” said I, in my heartiest voice, entirely mystified by the conversation.