Many a woman has lost a man's love through
showing jealousy. So--in time I got used to it, and _tout passe_," she
continued comfortably.
"And you wouldn't mind now, if----" asked Brigit, her elbows on her knees,
her chin on her hands.
Madame Joyselle laughed. "_Wouldn't mind?_ Oh, _ma chere_! Just before
you came, he had a very bad turn--it was an Italian actress--a
pantomimiste, with the most beautiful arms in the world, and the face of
a vicious little boy. And he? _Epate._ His ties wouldn't tie, he got new
shoes--fresh gloves every time he went to see her--scent, a new kind,
very expensive--he sent her flowers by the cartload, and went every
evening to see her act. Every day little mauve letters and wires from
her (he always forgot to burn them, and I was afraid Toinon might see
them), etc., etc., etc."
"And how did it end?" asked Brigit, her throat dry and hot. She hated
the pantomimiste.
"End? My faith, my dear, it is of a simplicity, the end. _You came._"
"I came----"
"Yes. And he was so delighted with his new--daughter--that he promptly
forgot his--love."
"But what did she do?"
"She made a fool of herself, poor thing; wrote, and telegraphed, and
threatened to kill herself.
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