THE AMERICAN
always a pain in my head. That's why I can't explain, I can't present the case. And she's so strong, she makes me walk as she will—anywhere! But there's this—there's this." And he stopped, still staring up at his visitor. His little white eyes expanded and glittered for a moment like those of a cat in the dark. "It's not as it seems. I haven't forgiven her. Oh, par exemple, no!"
"That's right, don't let up on it. If you should, you don't know what she still might do!"
"It's horrible, it's terrible," said M. Nioche; "but do you want to know the truth? I hate her! I take what she gives me, and I hate her more. To-day she brought me three hundred francs; they're here in my waistcoat-pocket. Now I hate her almost cruelly. No, I have n't forgiven her."
Newman had a return of his candour. "Why then did you accept the money?"
"If I hadn't I should have hated her still more. That, you see, is the nature of misery. No, I have n't forgiven her."
"Well, take care you don't hurt her!" Newman laughed again. And with this he took his leave. As he passed along the glazed side of the café, on reaching the street, he saw the old man motion the waiter, with a melancholy gesture, to replenish his glass.
A week after his visit to the Café de la Patrie he called one morning on Valentin de Bellegarde and by good fortune found him at home. He spoke of his interview with M. Nioche and his daughter, and said he was afraid Valentin had judged the old man correctly. He had found the couple hobnobbing
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