“Come, all the same though, Naqui; I shall not be here to bore you much longer. Yes, Quiqui, I am going to start to-night, and it will be some time before I come back again. I am leaving everything in your charge. Will you keep your heart for me too?” “Neither my heart nor anything else,” she said; “but when you come back again, Naqui will still be Naqui for you.” “Well, this is frankness. So you would not follow me?” “No.” “Why not?” “Eh! why, how can I leave the lover who writes me such sweet little notes?” she asked, pointing to the blackened scrap of paper with a mocking smile. “Is there any truth in it?” asked Castanier. “Have you really a lover?” “Really!” cried Aquilina; “and have you never given it a serious thought, dear? To begin with, you are fifty years old. Then you have just the sort of face to put on a fruit stall; if the woman tried to see you for a pumpkin, no one would contradict her. You puff and blow like a seal when you come upstairs; your paunch rises and falls like a diamond on a woman’s forehead! It is pretty plain that you served in the dragoons; you are a very ugly-looking old man. Fiddle-de-dee. If you have any mind to keep my respect, I recommend you not to add imbecility to these qualities by imagining that such a girl as I am will be content with your asthmatic love, and not look for youth and good looks and pleasure by way of a variety----” “Aquilina! you are laughing, of course?” “Oh, very well; and are you not laughing too? Do you take me for a fool, telling me that you are going away? ‘I am going to start to-night!’” she said, mimicking his tones. “Stuff and nonsense! Would you talk like that if you were really going from your Naqui? You would cry, like the booby that you are!” “After all, if I go, will you follow?” he asked. “Tell me first whether this journey of yours is a bad joke or not.” “Yes, seriously, I am going.” “Well, then, seriously, I shall stay. A pleasant journey to you, my boy! I will wait till you come back. I would sooner take leave of life than take leave of my dear, cozy Paris----” “Will you not come to Italy, to Naples, and lead a pleasant life there--a delicious, luxurious life, with this stout old fogy of yours, who puffs and blows like a seal?” “No.” “Ungrateful girl!”