“_Et toi, Yvonne?_” said he at length. “_Ça roule toujours?_ You look as if you were brewing money. Ravishing costume. _Crépon_--not twenty-five centimes a yard! A hat that looks like the Rue de la Paix! _Gants de reine et petites bottines de duchesse!_ You must be doing golden business. But speak, _petite_, since I assure you I am not a ghost!” Yvonne forced a faint smile. She tried to answer him, but her heart was thumping violently and a lump rose in her throat. “I am doing very well, Amédée,” she said. The dreadfulness of her position came over her. She felt sick and faint. What was going to happen? For some moments she did not hear him as he spoke. At last perception returned. “And you are pretty,” Amédée Bazouge was saying. “_Mais jolie à croquer_--prettier than you ever were. And I--I am going down the hill at the gallop. _Tiens_, Yvonne. Let us celebrate this meeting. Come and see me safe to the bottom. It won’t be long. I have money. I am always _bon enfant._ Let us remarry. From to-day. _Ce serait rigolo!_ And I will love you--_mais énormément!_” “But I am already married!” cried Yvonne. “Thinking me dead?” “Yes.” He looked at her for a few seconds, then slapped his thigh and, rising from his chair, bent himself double and gave vent to a roar of laughter. The tears stood in Yvonne’s eyes. “Oh, but it’s comic. You don’t find it so?” He leant back against the railings and laughed again in genuine merriment. “Why, it’s all the more reason to come back to me. _Ça y met du salé_. Have you any children?” Yvonne shook her head. “_Eh bien!_” he exclaimed, triumphantly, stepping towards her with outstretched hands. But she shrank from him, outraged and bewildered. “Never, never!” she cried. “Go away. Have pity on me, for God’s sake!” Amédée Bazouge shrugged his shoulders carelessly. “It’s a comedy, not a tragedy, _ma chère_. If you are happy, I am not going to be a spoilsport. It is not my way. Be tranquil with your good fat Englishman--I bet he’s an Englishman--In two years--bah! I can amuse myself always till then--my poor little Yvonne. No wonder I frightened you.” The affair seemed to cause him intense amusement. A ray of light appeared to Yvonne. “You won’t interfere with me at all, Amédée--not claim anything?” “Oh, don’t be afraid. _Dès ce moment je vais me reflanquer au sapin!_ I shall be as dead as dead can be for you. _Suis pas méchant va!_” “Thank you,” said Yvonne. “You were always kind-hearted, Amédée--oh, it was a horrible mistake--it can’t be altered. You see that I am helpless.” “Why, my child,” said he, seating himself again, “I keep on telling you it is a farce--like all the rest of life. I only laugh. And now let us talk a little before I pop into the coffin again. What is the name of the thrice happy being?” “Oh, don’t ask me, I beg you,” said Yvonne shivering. “It is all so painful. Tell me about yourself--your voice--Is it still in good condition?” “Never better. I am singing here this afternoon.”