am I," said Suzanne, sitting down on the bed and jangling the
curtain-rings back along the rod with despotic vehemence.

"Quesaco, my charmer?" said the old bachelor, sitting up in bed.

"Monsieur," said Suzanne, gravely, "you must be astonished to see me
here at this hour; but I find myself in a condition which obliges me not
to care for what people may say about it."

"What does all that mean?" said du Bousquier, crossing his arms.

"Don't you understand me?" said Suzanne. "I know," she continued, making
a pretty little face, "how ridiculous it is in a poor girl to come and
nag at a man for what he thinks a mere nothing. But if you really knew
me, monsieur, if you knew all that I am capable of for a man who would
attach himself to me as much as I'm attached to you, you would never
repent having married me. Of course it isn't here, in Alencon, that
I should be of service to you; but if we went to Paris, you would see
where I could lead a man with your mind and your capacities; and just
at this time too, when they are remaking the government from top to toe.
So--between ourselves, be it said--_is_ what has happened a misfortune?
Isn't it rather a piece of luck, which will pay you well? Who and what
are you working for now?"

"For myself, of course!" cried du Bousquier, brutally.

"Monster! you'll never be a father!" said Suzanne, giving a tone of
prophetic malediction to the words.

"Come, don't talk nonsense, Suzanne," replied du Bousquier; "I really
think I am still dreaming."

"How much more reality do you want?" cried Suzanne, standing up.

Du Bousquier rubbed his cotton night-cap to the top of his head with a
rotatory motion, which plainly indicated the tremendous fermentation of
his ideas.

"He actually believes it!" thought Suzanne, "and he's flattered. Heaven!
how easy it is to gull men!"

"Suzanne, what the devil must I do? It is so extraordinary--I, who
thought--The fact is that--No, no, it can't be--"

"What? you can't marry me?"

"Oh! as for that, no; I have engagements."

"With Mademoiselle Armande or Mademoiselle Cormon, who have both
refused you? Listen to me, Monsieur du Bousquier, my honor doesn't
need gendarmes to drag you to the mayor's office. I sha'n't lack for
husbands, thank goodness! and I don't want a man who can't appreciate
what I'm worth. But some day you'll repent of the way you are behaving;
for I tell you now that nothing on earth, neither gold nor silver, will
induce me