“Two first-class for Marseilles,” he said. It seemed to him as if that were equivalent to taking possession.
He made his way back to his post of observation through the luggage-laden wagons and the late-comers who jostled him as they ran. The drivers shouted, “Take care!” He stood there among the wheels of the cabs, under the horses’ feet, with deaf ears and staring eyes. Only five minutes more. It was almost impossible for her to arrive in time.
At last she appeared.
Yes, there she is, it is certainly she—a woman in black, slender and graceful, accompanied by another shorter woman—Madame Dobson, no doubt.
But a second glance undeceived him. It was a young woman who resembled her, a woman of fashion like her, with a happy face. A man, also young, joined them. It was evidently a wedding-party; the mother accompanied them, to see them safely on board the train.
Now there is the confusion of departure, the last stroke of the bell, the steam escaping with a hissing sound, mingled with the hurried footsteps of belated passengers, the slamming of doors and the rumbling of the heavy omnibuses. Sidonie comes not. And Frantz still waits.
At that moment a hand is placed on his shoulder.
Great God!
He turns. The coarse face of M. Gardinois, surrounded by a travelling-cap with ear-pieces, is before him.
“I am not mistaken, it is Monsieur Risler. Are you going to Marseilles by the express? I am not going far.”