THE AMERICAN
he gave an expressive sigh. "Got a headache?" Newman asked.
"Je suis triste," he answered with Gallic simplicity.
Newman stared at the remark as if it had been scrawled on a slate by a school-boy—a weakling whom he would n't wish, however, too harshly to snub. "You 've got a sentimental stomach-ache, eh? Have you caught it from the lady you told me the other night you adored and could n't marry?"
"Did I really speak of her?" Valentin asked as if a little struck. "I was afraid afterwards I had made some low allusion—for I don't as a general thing (and it's a rare scruple I have!) drag in ces dames before Claire. But I was feeling the bitterness of life, as who should say, when I spoke; and—yes, if you want to know—I 've my mouth full of it still. Why did you ever introduce me to that girl?"
"Oh, it's Noémie, is it? Lord deliver us! You don't mean to say you're lovesick about her?"
"Lovesick, no; it's not a grand passion. But the cold-blooded little demon sticks in my thoughts; she has bitten me with those even little teeth of hers; I feel as if I might turn rabid and do something crazy in consequence. It's very low, it's disgustingly low. She's the most mercenary little jade in Europe. Yet she really affects my peace of mind; she's always running in my head. It's a striking and a vile contrast to your noble and virtuous attachment. It's rather pitiful that it should be the best I'm able to do for myself at my present respectable age. I'm
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