"You must not upset yourself like that," said he; "you have nothing to
fear from me; it isn't my intention to give you any trouble. Only when I
learnt at last where you were I wished to know you, and that was natural,
wasn't it? I even fancied that perhaps you might be pleased to see me. .
. . Then, too, the truth is that I'm precious badly off. Three years ago
I was silly enough to come back to Paris, where I do little more than
starve. And on the days when one hasn't breakfasted, one feels inclined
to look up one's parents, even though they may have turned one into the
street, for, all the same, they can hardly be so hard-hearted as to
refuse one a plateful of soup."
Tears rose to Norine's eyes. This was the finishing stroke, the return of
that wretched cast-off son, that big suspicious-looking fellow who
accused her and complained of starving. Annoyed at being unable to elicit
from her any response but shivers and sobs, Alexandre turned to Cecile:
"You are her sister, I know," said he; "tell her that it's stupid of her
to go on like that. I haven't come to murder her. It's funny how pleased
she is to see me! Yet I don't make any noise, and I said nothing whatever
to the door-porter downstairs, I assure you.
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