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Page 41
He looked hastily around, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and
carefully wiped the wet place on the bill. He thought again of the
old banker in the Rue Bergere.
What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at
last led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he
not hate his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that
Alphonse was ruined--he had shared with him honestly, and never
harmed him.
Then his thoughts tamed to Alphonse. He knew him well enough to be
sure that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he
must have come to a jutting headland in life, and he prepared to
leap out of it rather than let disgrace reach him.
At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be. Alphonse
should not have time to send a bullet through his bead and hide
his shame in the mixture of compassion and mysterious horror
which follows the suicide. Thus Charles would lose
his revenge, and it would be all to no purpose that he had gone
and nursed his hatred until he himself had become evil through
it. Since he had forever lost his friend, he would at least expose
his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable, despicable
being was this charming Alphonse.
He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Charles knew the
cafe in which he would find Alphonse at this hour; he pocketed the
bill and buttoned his coat.
But on the way he would call at a police-station, and hand over
the bill to a detective, who at a sign from Charles should
suddenly advance into the middle of the cafe where Alphonse was
always surrounded by his friends and admirers, and say loudly and
distinctly so that all should hear it:
"Monsieur Alphonse, you are charged with forgery."
It was raining in Paris. The day had been foggy, raw, and cold;
and well on in the afternoon it had begun to rain. It was not a
downpour--the water did not fall from the clouds in regular
drops--but the clouds themselves had, as it were, laid themselves
down in the streets of Paris and there slowly condensed into water.
No matter how people might seek to shelter themselves, they got
wet on all sides. The moisture slid down the back of your neck,
laid itself like a wet towel about your knees, penetrated into
your boots and far up your trousers.
A few sanguine ladies were standing in the portes cocheres, with
their skirts tucked up, expecting it to clear; others waited by
the hour in the omnibus stations. But most of the stronger sex
hurried along under their umbrellas; only a few had been sensible
enough to give up the battle, and had turned up their collars,
stuck their umbrellas under their arms, and their hands in their
pockets.
Although it was early in the autumn it was already dusk at five
o'clock. A few gas-jets lighted in the narrowest streets, and in a
shop here and there strove to shine out in the thick wet air.
People swarmed as usual in the streets, jostled one another off
the pavement, and ruined one another's umbrellas. All the cabs
were taken up; they splashed along and bespattered the foot
passengers to the best of their ability, while the asphalt
glistened in the dim light with a dense coating of mud.
The cafes were crowded to excess; regular customers went round and
scolded, and the waiters ran against each other in their hurry.
Ever and anon, amid the confusion, could be heard the sharp little
ting of the bell on the buffet; it was la dame du comptoir
summoning a waiter, while her calm eyes kept a watch upon the
whole cafe.
A lady sat at the buffet of a large restaurant on the Boulevard
Sebastopol. She was widely known for her cleverness and her
amiable manners.
She had glossy black hair, which, in spite of the fashion, she
wore parted in the middle of her forehead in natural curls. Her
eyes were almost black and her mouth full, with a little shadow of
a moustache.
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