my little Venus! my Joan of Arc! my heroine! my paragon of women!
He was gloating on me with an odious curiosity, smiling, as he groped backward with his thin brown fingers to find the lady's hand; but she, not (I dare say) caring for his caresses, drew back a little.
"Come, ma chère, let us count these things. What is it? Pocket-book? Or—or—what?"
"It is that!" said the lady, pointing with a look of disgust to the box, which lay in its leather case on the table.
"Oh! Let us see—let us count—let us see," he said, as he was unbuckling the straps with his tremulous fingers. "We must count them—we must see to it. I have pencil and pocket-book—but—where's the key? See this cursed lock! My ! What is it? Where's the key?
He was standing before the Countess,
