When she got up she exhaled such a strong odor of perfume that it almost made me feel faint.

When we sat down to supper, I found that Paul was in a most execrable temper, and I could get nothing out of him but blame, irritable words, and disagreeable remarks.

Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and as soon as she had finished her meal she threw herself upon the sofa in the sitting-room.  Sitting down beside her, I said gallantly, kissing her hand: 

“Shall I have the bed prepared, or will you sleep on the couch?”

“It is all the same to me.  ’Che mi fa’!”

Her indifference vexed me.

“Should you like to retire at once?”

“Yes; I am very sleepy.”

She got up, yawned, gave her hand to Paul, who took it with a furious look, and I lighted her into the bedroom.  A disquieting feeling haunted me.  “Here is all you want,” I said again.

The next morning she got up early, like a woman who is accustomed to work.  She woke me by doing so, and I watched her through my half-closed eyelids.

She came and went without hurrying herself, as if she were astonished at having nothing to do.  At length she went to the dressing-table, and in a moment emptied all my bottles of perfume.  She certainly also used some water, but very little.

When she was quite dressed, she sat down on her trunk again, and clasping one knee between her hands, she seemed to be thinking.

At that moment I pretended to first notice her, and said: 

“Good-morning, Francesca.”

Without seeming in at all a better temper than the previous night, she murmured, “Good-morning!”

When I asked her whether she had slept well, she nodded her head, and jumping out of bed, I went and kissed her.

She turned her face toward me like a child who is being kissed against its will; but I took her tenderly in my arms, and gently pressed my lips on her eyelids, which she closed with evident distaste under my kisses on her fresh cheek and full lips, which she turned away.

“You don’t seem to like being kissed,” I said to her.

“Mica!” was her only answer.

I sat down on the trunk by her side, and passing my arm through hers, I said:  “Mica! mica! mica! in reply to everything.  I shall call you Mademoiselle Mica, I think.”

For the first time I fancied that I saw the shadow of a smile on her lips, but it passed by so quickly that I may have been mistaken.

“But if you never say anything but Mica, I shall not know what to do to please you.  Let me see; what shall we do to-day?”

She hesitated a moment, as if some fancy had flitted through her head, and then she said carelessly:  “It is all the same to me; whatever you like.”

“Very well, Mademoiselle Mica, we will have a carriage and go for a drive.”

“As you please,” she said.

Paul was waiting for us in the dining-room, looking as bored as third parties usually do in love affairs.  I assumed a delighted air, and shook hands with him with triumphant energy.