“The good Bocardon is becoming tiresome,” said Aristide.
Zette’s lips parted, as she pointed to a black speck at the iron entrance gates.
“Mon Dieu! there he is!”
“He has become tiresome,” said Aristide.
She rose, displaying to its full advantage her supple and stately figure. She had a queenly poise of the head. Aristide contemplated her with the frankest admiration.
“One would say Juno was walking the earth again.”
Although Zette had never heard of Juno, and was as miserable and heavy hearted a woman as dwelt in Nîmes, a flush of pleasure rose to her cheeks. She too was a child of the South, and female children of the South love to be admired, no matter how frankly. I have heard of Daughters of the Snows not quite averse to it. She sighed.
“I must go now, monsieur. He must not find me here with you. I am suffering enough already from his reproaches. Ah! it is unjust—unjust!” she cried, clenching her hands, while the tears again started into her eyes, and the corners of her pretty lips twitched with pain. “Indeed,” she added, “I know it has been wrong of me to talk to you like this. But que voulez-vous? It was not my fault. Adieu, monsieur.”
At the sight of her standing before him in her woeful beauty, Aristide’s pulses throbbed.
“It is not adieu—it is au revoir, Mme. Zette,” he cried.