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her any more. And if he came to ask her to forgive him on his knees, she would let him grovel at her feet.
“Don’t you understand, Monsieur Sariecte, that I despise and hate him, that he makes me sick?”
Sixty times she voiced these lofty sentiments; sixty times she vowed she would never have Guinardon back with her again, that she couldn’t bear the sight of him, even in a picture.
Monsieur Sariette made no attempt to oppose a resolve which, after protestations such as these, he regarded as unshakable. He did nor blame Zephyrine in the least. He even supported her. Unfolding to the deserted one a purer future, he told her of the frailty of human sentiment, exhorted her to display a spirit of renunciation and enjoined her to show a pious resignation to the will of God.
“Seeing, in truth, that your friend is so little worthy of affection . . .”
He was not suffered to continue. Zephyrine flew at him, and shaking him furiously by the collar of his frock-coat, she yelled, half choking with rage: “So little worthy of affection! Michel! Ah! my boy, you find another more kind, more gay, more witty, you find another like him, always young, yes, always. Not worthy of affection! Anyone can see you don’t know anything about love, you old duffer.”
Taking advantage of the fact that Père Sariette
