“This is a day of autos-de-fe,” said the artist, dropping into a chair; “but bah! small loss; if Reine asks to see this lock, I will tell her that I destroyed it with kisses.  That always flatters them, and I am sure it will please this little field-flower.  It is a fact that she has cheeks like rosy apples!  On my way back I thought of a vaudeville that I should like to write about this.  Only I should lay the scene in Switzerland and I should call the young woman Betty or Kettly instead of Reine, a name ending in ‘Y’ which would rhyme with Rutly, on account of local peculiarities.  Will you join in it?  I have almost finished the scenario.  First scene—­Upon the rising of the curtain, harvesters are discovered—­”

“Will you do me the favor of going to bed?” interrupted Gerfaut.

“Chorus of harvesters: 

Deja l’aurore
Qui se colore—­”

“If you do not leave me alone, I will throw the contents of this water-pitcher at your head.”

“I never have seen you in such a surly temper.  It looks indeed as if your divinity had treated you cruelly.”

“She has treated me shamefully!” exclaimed the lover, whose anger was freshly kindled at this question; “she has treated me as one would treat a barber’s boy.  This note, which I just burned, was a most formal, unpleasant, insolent dismissal.  This woman is a monster, do you understand me?”

“A monster! your angel, a monster!” said Marillac, suppressing with difficulty a violent outburst of laughter.

“She, an angel?  I must say that she is a demon—­This woman—­”

“Do you not adore her?”

“I hate her, I abhor her, she makes me shudder.  You may laugh, if you like!”

As he said these words, Gerfaut struck a violent blow upon the table with his fist.

“You forget that Mademoiselle de Corandeuil’s room is just beneath us,” said the artist, in a teasing way.

“Listen to me, Marillac!  Your system with women is vulgar, gross, and trivial.  The daisies which you gather, the maidens from whom you cut handfuls of hair excellent for stuffing mattresses, your rustic beauties with cheeks like rosy apples are conquests worthy of counter-jumpers in their Sunday clothes.  That is nothing but the very lowest grade of love-making, and yet you are right, a thousand times right, and wonderfully wise compared with me.”

“You do me too much honor!  So, then, you are not loved?”

“Truly, I had an idea I was, or, if I was not loved to-day, I hoped to be to-morrow.  But you are mistaken as to what discourages me.  I simply fear that her heart is narrow.  I believe that she loves me as much as she is able to love; unfortunately, that is not enough for me.”

“It certainly seems to me that, so far, she has not shown herself madly in love with you.”