The two men avoided each other's eyes.
"I will believe nothing that you do not wish me to believe," said
Camusot. "Don't play with me, Coralie; I was wrong----"
"I am either a shameless baggage that has taken a sudden fancy; or a
poor, unhappy girl who feels what love really is for the first time,
the love that all women long for. And whichever way it is, you must
leave me or take me as I am," she said, with a queenly gesture that
crushed Camusot.
"Is it really true?" he asked, seeing from their faces that this was
no jest, yet begging to be deceived.
"I love mademoiselle," Lucien faltered out.
At that word, Coralie sprang to her poet and held him tightly to her;
then, with her arms still about him, she turned to the silk-mercer, as
if to bid him see the beautiful picture made by two young lovers.
"Poor Musot, take all that you gave to me back again; I do not want to
keep anything of yours; for I love this boy here madly, not for his
intellect, but for his beauty. I would rather starve with him than
have millions with you."
Camusot sank into a low chair, hid his face in his hands, and said not
a word.
"Would you like us to go away?" she asked. There was a note of
ferocity in her voice which no words can describe.
Cold chills ran down Lucien's spine; he beheld himself burdened with a
woman, an actress, and a household.
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