“That lady,” replied he, “is neither wife nor mistress, Mademoiselle: she sought the shelter of my roof with a claim upon the hospitality of Beaumanoir.
“No doubt”—Angélique's nostril quivered with a fine disdain—“the hospitality of Beaumanoir is as broad and comprehensive as its master's admiration for our sex!” said she.
Bigot was not angry. He gave a loud laugh. “You women are merciless upon each other, Mademoiselle!” said he.
“Men are more merciless to women when they beguile us with insincere professions,” replied she, rising up in well-affected indignation.
“Not so, Mademoiselle!” Bigot began to feel annoyed. “That lady is nothing to me,” said he, without rising as she had done. He kept his seat.
“But she has been! you have loved her at some time or other! and she is now living on the scraps and leavings of former affection. I am never deceived, Chevalier!” continued she, glancing down at him, a wild light playing under her long eyelashes like the illumined under-edge of a thundercloud.
“But how in St. Picot's name did you arrive at all this knowledge, Mademoiselle?” Bigot began to see that there was nothing for it but to comply with every caprice of this incomprehensible girl if he would carry his point.
“Oh, nothing is easier than for a woman to divine the truth in such matters, Chevalier,” said she. “It is a sixth sense given to our sex to protect our weakness: no man can make love to two women but each of them knows instinctively to her finger-tips that he is doing it.”
“Surely woman is a beautiful book written in golden letters, but in a tongue as hard to understand as hieroglyphics of Egypt.” Bigot was quite puzzled how to proceed with this incomprehensible girl.
“Thanks for the comparison, Chevalier,” replied she, with a laugh. “It would not do for men to scrutinize us too closely, yet one woman reads another easily as a horn-book of Troyes, which they say is so easy that the children read it without learning.”