“As you will,” she replied.  “I’ll make tea, and we’ll go to bed after.”

Thereupon Fontan installed himself at the table on which pen, ink and paper were at the same time grandly displayed.  He curved his arm; he drew a long face.

“My heart’s own,” he began aloud.

And for more than an hour he applied himself to his task, polishing here, weighing a phrase there, while he sat with his head between his hands and laughed inwardly whenever he hit upon a peculiarly tender expression.  Nana had already consumed two cups of tea in silence, when at last he read out the letter in the level voice and with the two or three emphatic gestures peculiar to such performances on the stage.  It was five pages long, and he spoke therein of “the delicious hours passed at La Mignotte, those hours of which the memory lingered like subtle perfume.”  He vowed “eternal fidelity to that springtide of love” and ended by declaring that his sole wish was to “recommence that happy time if, indeed, happiness can recommence.”

“I say that out of politeness, y’know,” he explained.  “The moment it becomes laughable—­eh, what!  I think she’s felt it, she has!”

He glowed with triumph.  But Nana was unskillful; she still suspected an outbreak and now was mistaken enough not to fling her arms round his neck in a burst of admiration.  She thought the letter a respectable performance, nothing more.  Thereupon he was much annoyed.  If his letter did not please her she might write another!  And so instead of bursting out in loverlike speeches and exchanging kisses, as their wont was, they sat coldly facing one another at the table.  Nevertheless, she poured him out a cup of tea.

“Here’s a filthy mess,” he cried after dipping his lips in the mixture.  “You’ve put salt in it, you have!”

Nana was unlucky enough to shrug her shoulders, and at that he grew furious.

“Aha!  Things are taking a wrong turn tonight!”

And with that the quarrel began.  It was only ten by the clock, and this was a way of killing time.  So he lashed himself into a rage and threw in Nana’s teeth a whole string of insults and all kinds of accusations which followed one another so closely that she had no time to defend herself.  She was dirty; she was stupid; she had knocked about in all sorts of low places!  After that he waxed frantic over the money question.  Did he spend six francs when he dined out?  No, somebody was treating him to a dinner; otherwise he would have eaten his ordinary meal at home.  And to think of spending them on that old procuress of a Maloir, a jade he would chuck out of the house tomorrow!  Yes, by jingo, they would get into a nice mess if he and she were to go throwing six francs out of the window every day!

“Now to begin with, I want your accounts,” he shouted.  “Let’s see; hand over the money!  Now where do we stand?”

All his sordid avaricious instincts came to the surface.  Nana was cowed and scared, and she made haste to fetch their remaining cash out of the desk and to bring it him.  Up to that time the key had lain on this common treasury, from which they had drawn as freely as they wished.