"She's a bad case."
"It's horrible, it's horrible," said M. Nioche; "but do you want to know
the truth? I hate her! I take what she gives me, and I hate her
more. To-day she brought me three hundred francs; they are here in my
waistcoat pocket. Now I hate her almost cruelly. No, I haven't forgiven
her."
"Why did you accept the money?" Newman asked.
"If I hadn't," said M. Nioche, "I should have hated her still more.
That's what misery is. No, I haven't forgiven her."
"Take care you don't hurt her!" said Newman, laughing again. And with
this he took his leave. As he passed along the glazed side of the cafe,
on reaching the street, he saw the old man motioning the waiter, with a
melancholy gesture, to replenish his glass.
One day, a week after his visit to the Cafe de la Patrie, he called upon
Valentin de Bellegarde, and by good fortune found him at home. Newman
spoke of his interview with M. Nioche and his daughter, and said he
was afraid Valentin had judged the old man correctly. He had found the
couple hobnobbing together in all amity; the old gentleman's rigor was
purely theoretic. Newman confessed that he was disappointed; he should
have expected to see M. Nioche take high ground.
"High ground, my dear fellow," said Valentin, laughing; "there is
no high ground for him to take.
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