"Loves another!" in plain and well-measured cadence.
And the word "l-o-v-e-s" was long and sorrowfully drawn out, and "another" came sharply decisive.
He wandered on, aimlessly, yet in the general direction of Montrouge. Fouchette,—yes, she had told the truth. He—where was he?
The streets up here were practically deserted, the entire population, apparently, having gone to the boulevards. Here and there some rez-de-chaussée aglow showed the usual gossippers of the concierges. Now and then isolated merrymakers were returning, covered with confetti, having exhausted themselves and the pleasures of the day together.
Rue Hallé,—he remembered now, though he scarcely noted it.
All at once his heart gave a bound. His mind came down to vulgar earth. It was at the sight of a solitary woman who sped swiftly round the corner from the Avenue d'Orléans and came towards him. Her stout figure between him and the electric light cast a long shadow down the street,—the shadow of a woman in bloomer costume, with a hat perched forward at an angle of forty-five degrees.
It was Mlle. Madeleine.
What could she be doing here at this hour,—she, who lived in Rue Monge?
Before he could answer this question she was almost upon him. But she was so absorbed in her own purposes that she saw him not, merely turning to the right up the Rue Hallé with the quick and certain step of one who knows. Her black brows were set fiercely, and beneath them the big dark eyes glittered dangerously. Her full lips were tightly compressed; in the firmness of her tread was a world of determination.
Jean had obtained a good view of her face as she crossed the street, and he shuddered. For in it he saw reflected the state of his own tempestuous soul. He had read therein his own mind distempered by love and doubt and torn by jealousy, disappointment, and despair.