“Thank you, Piotr; so now listen. In a little while your father and I--if you are very good--are going to make you a present of a little playmate. He will be very tiny and awkward at the beginning, but he will grow up fast, and be able to romp with you, and toss the _paume_ like Henri-Quatre. Won’t you be pleased, Piotr?” The boy, leaning against her knees, looked slowly up at her, his eyes heavy with doubt. “Is that another fairy-tale, like the ones you tell me every day, little darling Malou?” he asked, the corners of his mouth beginning to droop. “A fairy-tale? Why, no, Piotr, it’s a true, true story!” “And,” the child continued, “will you _truly, truly_ bring another Piotr here to play with me instead of you and Papa and Uncle Régis?” Marguerite was not quite reassured. She knew her Piotr too well, and her thumbs began to prick oddly, as she claimed they invariably did when trouble was afoot. “I imagined you’d like it very much,” she cautiously hazarded, not by any means certain of her ground and feeling her way about, so to speak. Piotr’s strongly marked dark brows came together above his imperious little nose and his nostrils quivered. “I would hate it!” he said, decisively; “so don’t bring a disgusting brat here, little darling Malou, or I’ll pitch him in the _oubliettes_ under the great round tower. I swear I will!” She noticed a nervous twitching of his left eyebrow, which she was acquainted with as a very bad sign of the weather, and she hastened to try and smooth things down. “Don’t talk like that, darling,” she said, stroking the rebellious head. “You know very well that you would never do anything so wicked; besides, you might get to be awfully fond of your little playmate.” With a sudden brutality of gesture utterly disconcerting, Piotr snatched the starry branches from Marguerite’s lap and threw them helter-skelter across the room. Then turning, he fled toward the door. “Piotr,” she called, very calmly, “come back to Malou!” She had not stirred, her face was white; but there was no quiver in her voice, and the child, his hand already on the knob, paused at full tension, his back toward her. “Come back here, please!” Again she did not raise her tone, but there was a new quality in it; and very reluctantly, his face dark as thunder, Piotr retraced his steps one by one until he stood within a foot of her. “My little Piotr,” she murmured, very tenderly, “are you going to be bad with me, too?” No answer. Her heart for a moment misgave her, but she held out her arms to him with infinite gentleness. “Don’t you love Malou any more, Piotr?” she asked, almost in a whisper.