a pivot, keeping him always in view.
This circus-ring performance lasted some minutes before Quennebert stood
still and said--

"I cannot be angry with you, Madame Rapally, I know your offer was
made out of the kindness of your heart,--but I must repeat that it is
impossible for me to accept it."

"There you go again! I don't understand you at all! Why can't you
accept? What harm would it do?"

"If there were no other reason, because people might suspect that I
confided my difficulties to you in the hope of help."

"And supposing you did, what then? People speak hoping to be understood.
You wouldn't have minded asking anyone else."

"So you really think I did come in that hope?"

"Mon Dieu! I don't think anything at all that you don't want. It was I
who dragged the confidence from you by my questions, I know that very
well. But now that you have told me your secret, how can you hinder me
from sympathising with you, from desiring to aid you? When I learned
your difficulty, ought I to have been amused, and gone into fits of
laughter? What! it's an insult to be in a position to render you a
service! That's a strange kind of delicacy!"

"Are you astonished that I should feel so strongly about it?"

"Nonsense! Do you still think I meant to offend you? I look on you as
the most honourable man in the world. If anyone were to tell me that
he had seen you commit a base action, I should reply that it was a lie.
Does that satisfy you?"

"But suppose they got hold of it in the city, suppose it were reported
that Maitre Quennebert had taken money from Madame de Rapally, would
it be the same as if they said Maitre Quennebert had borrowed twelve
hundred livres from Monsieur Robert or some other business man?"

"I don't see what difference it could make."

"But I do."

"What then?"

"It's not easy to express, but----"

"But you exaggerate both the service and the gratitude you ought to
feel. I think I know why you refuse. You're ashamed to take it as a
gift, aren't you."

"Yes, I am."

"Well, I'm not going to make you a gift. Borrow twelve hundred livres
from me. For how long do you want the money?"

"I really don't know how soon I can repay you."

"Let's say a year, and reckon the interest. Sit down there, you baby,
and write out a promissory note."

Maitre Quennebert made some further show of resistance, but at last
yielded to the widow's importunity. It is needless to say that the whole
thing was a comedy