She met, he believed that she loved him. It was not
probable, of course, that she came out of the wrestle unscathed. She
deceived in little things, but he knew when to trust her. She was
quick-tempered and impatient of control, but he understood her, and
their quarrels were harbingers of their most happy seasons. She was
generous, affectionate, artless. He did not know among the similar
attachments of his friends any creature so pliable, so true, so
beautiful.
It was upon her acquaintances that Ralph placed the blame when she
erred. Fanchette was one of these--the dame of a student from Bretagne,
a worldly, plotting, masculine woman--the only one whom he permitted to
visit her. It was Fanchette who loaned her money when she was indolent,
and who prompted her to ask favors beyond his means.
Toward the end of every month Ralph's money ran out, and then he was
petulant and often upbraided her. Those were the only times when he
essayed to study, and he would not walk with her of evenings, so
destitute. Then Fanchette amused her: "Sew in my room," she would say;
"Ralph will come for you at eight o'clock." But Ralph never went, and
Fanchette poisoned his little girl's mind.
"When will you leave Paris, baby?" said Suzette one evening, as she
returned from her friend's and found him sitting moodily by the fire.
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