"There is fresh water in the dining-room."
"But I have something to say to you—something very particular, mademoiselle."
"You must say it in the morning."
"Oh! my head is on fire! I have just finished the poem I have addressed to you. Will you not hear it?"
"To-morrow. You shall read it to-morrow. Monsieur Anatole."
"Mon Dieu! How shall I pass this night? J'ai de bleus recueillements! Je réve le suicide! Je———"
"Don't be disagreeable. Monsieur Anatole, and talk nonsense. Go to bed. You can't stand outside my door all night and rave in this absurd way."
"Kill me, mademoiselle! Open the door, and kill me! It would be kinder!"
"Monsieur Anatole, if you do not go away instantly, I will never speak to you again."
She heard a plaintive murmuring as she closed the inner door of her bedroom; but whether he obeyed her at once, she never knew.
Monsieur Anatole Doucet was somewhat disconcerted when, at the midday meal the following day, this strange young woman asked him, before every one, whether he had found water to quench his thirst the previous night; and furthermore, whether he would read his poem before the assembled pensionnaires after breakfast. Thereupon a general chaffing of the poet ensued, in which every one joined, except Madame de Belcour, who looked indignant. He coloured and glared, and pushed back his distraught hair, and soon after left the table. The situation was seized, and variously commented on by all.
