She was pouring the coffee back through the strainer in order to get the full strength of it, though it already looked as black as tar and strong enough to float an iron wedge. At the same time she saw him before her glass attentively examining the marks on his throat, now even more distinctly red than on the night before. But she knew instinctively that his thoughts were not of his own, but of another neck.
Breakfast was not the lively repast of the previous evening. In the best of circumstances breakfast is a pessimistic meal. The world never looks the same as it appeared at yesterday's dinner.
Jean had risen to a falling barometer. The first ebullition of joy at having been spared the slaughter of his friend and the brother of the girl he loved had passed and the real future stared him in the face. He began to entertain doubts as to whether a single glance from a pair of blue eyes was a solid foundation for the magnificent edifice he had erected thereon. But Jean Marot was intensely egoist and was prone to regard that which he wanted as already his.
Mlle. Fouchette was facing the same question on her own account,—a fact which she concealed from both as far as possible by making herself believe it was his affair exclusively. As it is always easier to grapple with the difficulties of others than with our own, she soon found means to encourage her illusion.
"Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"You are not at all a woman——"
"What, then, monsieur, if I am not——"
"Wait! I mean not at all like other women," he hastily interposed.
"Par exemple?"