All this smacked of the
generosity of a new lover. "But no, no," I repeated, "it is
impossible that Manon should deceive me! She is aware, that I live
only for her, she is exceedingly well aware that I adore her."'"
"Ah, the little fool, the little fool!" exclaimed Liubka. "Why,
can't you see right off that she's being kept by this rich man.
Ah, trash that she is!"
And the further the novel unfolded, the more passionate and lively
an interest did Liubka take in it. She had nothing against Manon's
fleecing her subsequent patrons with the help of her lover and her
brother, while de Grieux occupied himself with sharping at the
club; but her every new betrayal brought Liubka into a rage, while
the sufferings of the gallant chevalier evoked her tears. Once she
asked:
"Soloviev, dearie, who was he--this author?"
"He was a certain French priest."
"He wasn't a Russian?"
"No, a Frenchman, I'm telling you. See, he's got everything so--
the towns are French and the people have French names."
"Then he was a priest, you say? Where did he know all this from,
then?"
"Well, he knew it, that's all.
Pages:
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429