s what your concierge said."

"That it was improper for you to come to see me at this hour of the
night."

"Improper? Bah!" cried Blanquette, for whom such conventions existed
not. "But she told me that it was _un joli petit amant_ that I had
upstairs. What an idea!" She laughed again.

"You find that funny?" I asked, my dignity somewhat ruffled. "I suppose
I am as pretty a little lover as anyone else."

"But you and me, Asticot, it is so droll."

"If you put it that way," I admitted, "it is. But the concierge doesn't
think it possible that you are not my _maitresse_. Why otherwise should
you be running in and out of my room, as if it belonged to you?"

"You will be bringing a _maitresse_ of your own here soon, and then you
won't want Blanquette any longer."

I dismissed the idea as one too remote for contemplation. At the same
time I reflected that I kissed a pretty model at Janot's when we met
alone on the stairs. I wondered whether the diabolical perspicacity of
women had seen traces of the kiss on my lips.

"I disturb you?" she asked drawing up my other wooden chair to the deal
table and sitting down.

"Why, no. I can work while you talk."

She put her elbow on a couple of pickled gherkins that remained casually
on the table after a perambulatory meal.

"Oh, how dirty men are! You are worse than the Master. Oh la! la! and he
puts his boots and his dirty plates together on his bed! It is time that
you did have a _maitresse_ to keep the place in order."

"I believe you really do want to come here in that capacity," I said
laughingly.

She flushed at the jest and drew herself up. "You have no right to say
that, Asticot. I would sooner be the Master's servant than the mistress
or even the wife of any man living. He is everything to me, my little
Asticot, everything, do you hear? although he loves me just as he loves
you and Narcisse. _Il ne faut pas te moquer de moi._ You must not laugh
at me. It hurts me."

It was only then, for the first time, that I realised in Blanquette a
grown woman. Hitherto I had regarded her merely as a female waif picked
up like the dog and myself under Paragot's vagabond arm and attached to
him by ties of gratitude. Now, lo and behold! she was a woman talking of
deep things with a treacherous throb in her voice.

I reached across the table and took one of her coarse hands.

"_Mais tu l'aimes donc, ma pauvre Blanquette!_" I exclaimed in sympathy
and consternation.

She lo