We passed over the Seine, lighted and asleep in the exquisite Parisian night, and the rattling of the cab on the cobble-stones roused Diaz from his stupor.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘Just going through the Louvre,’ I replied.
‘I don’t know how I got to the other s-side of the river,’ he said. ‘Don’t remember. So you’re coming home with me, eh? You aren’t ‘shamed of me?’
‘You are hurting me,’ I said coldly, ‘with your elbow.’
‘Oh, a thousand pardons! a thous’ parnds, Magda! That isn’t your real name, is it?’
He sat upright and turned his face to glance at mine with a fatuous smile; but I would not look at him. I kept my eyes straight in front. Then a swerve of the carriage swung his body away from me, and he subsided into the corner. The intoxication was gaining on him every minute.
‘What shall I do with him?’ I thought.
I blushed as we drove up the Avenue de l’Opera and across the Grand Boulevard, for it seemed to me that all the gay loungers must observe Diaz’ condition. We followed darker thoroughfares, and at last the cab, after climbing a hill, stopped before a house in a street that appeared rather untidy and irregular. I got out first, and Diaz stumbled after me, while two women on the opposite side of the road stayed curiously to watch us. Hastily I opened my purse and gave the driver a five-franc-piece, and he departed before Diaz could decide what to say. I had told him to go.
I did not wish to tell the driver to go. I told him in spite of myself.