You will pity the poor old exile.
I love you very much, Francine."
"Stand off!" cried the madame; "_vous m'embate!_ You say you love me;
then marry me!"
"Nonsense, my angel!"
"I say marry me!" repeated the madame, stamping her foot. "You are rich
in America. You have slaves and land and houses and fine relatives. You
will get all these when the war closes; but if you die of starvation in
Paris, they amount to nothing. Marry me! I will keep you alive here; you
will give me half of your possessions there! I shall be a grand lady,
ride in my carriage, and have a nasty black woman to wash my fine
clothes."
"That is impossible, Francine," answered Pisgah, not so utterly degraded
but he felt the stigma of such a proposition from his
_blanchisseuse_--and as he leaned his faded hairs upon his unnerved and
quivering hands, the old pride fluttered in his heart a moment and
painted rage upon his neck and temples.
"You are insulted, my lord count!" cried Madame Francine; "an alliance
with a poor washerwoman would shame your great kin. Pay me my money, you
beggar! or I shall put the fine gentleman in prison for debt."
"That would be a kindness to me, madame," said Pisgah, very humbly and
piteously.
"You are right," she made answer, with a mocking laugh; "I will not save
your life: you shall starve, sir! you shall starve!"
In truth, this consummation seemed very close, for as Pisgah entered his
creamery soon afterward, the proprietor met him at the threshold.
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