Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. Your portrait hangs on every wall. You will find
there the little bed of the Rue des Martyrs. Listen to me, I beg of you:
I have suffered too much; I will not suffer any longer. I demand that
you shall be mine, mine only."

While he was speaking, Félicie had taken from the mantelpiece the pack
of cards with which her mother played every night, and was spreading
them out on the table.

"Mine only. You hear me, Félicie."

"Don't disturb me, I am busy with a game of patience."

"Listen to me, Félicie. I won't have you receiving that fool in your
dressing-room."

Looking at her cards she murmured:

"All the blacks are at the bottom of the pack."

"I say that fool. He is a diplomatist, and nowadays the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs is the refuge of incompetents." Raising his voice, he
continued: "Félicie, for your own sake, as well as for mine, listen to
me!"

"Well, don't shout, then. Mama is asleep."

He continued in muffled tones:

"Just get it into your head that I don't intend that Ligny shall be your