In the rushingly enlarged vision I had of them, the
wrath on the woman's face was even more saliently the main thing than
I had supposed it would be. That very hard Parisian face must have
been as white as the powder that coated it. `?coute, Ange'lique,'
gasped the perspiring bourgeois, `e'coute, je te supplie--' The swing-
door received them and was left swinging to and fro. I wanted to
follow, but had not paid for my bock. I beckoned my waiter. On his way
to me he stooped down and picked up something which, with a smile and
a shrug, he laid on my table: `Il semble que Mademoiselle ne s'en
servira plus.' This is the thing I now write of, and at sight of it I
understood why there had been that snapping and crackling, and what
the white fragments on the ground were.
I hurried through the rooms, hoping to see a continuation of that
drama--a scene of appeasement, perhaps, or of fury still implacable.
But the two oddly-assorted players were not performing there. My
waiter had told me he had not seen either of them before. I suppose
they had arrived that day. But I was not destined to see either of
them again. They went away, I suppose, next morning; jointly or
singly; singly, I imagine.
They made, however, a prolonged stay in my young memory, and would
have done so even had I not had that tangible memento of them.
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