The malice of Lerouge had been but the knock-out blow. It seemed to her now that his part was not half so cruel as that one kiss,—the kiss of Andrée's, that had stolen hers, Fouchette's, from his warm lips!
Yes, it was finished.
There was nothing to live for now. Her sun had set. The light had gone out, leaving her alone, friendless, without a future.
The fact that she had herself willed it, brought it about, and that she earnestly desired their happiness, made her despair none the less dark and profound.
She felt that she must get away,—must escape in some way from the consequences of her own folly.
She precipitated herself down the narrow stairs at the risk of her neck and darted down the Rue St. Jacques half crazed with grief. She had made no change in her attire, had not even paused to restrain the blonde hair that fell over her face.
Rue St. Jacques is in high feather at this hour in the evening. It is the hour of the jolly roysterer, male and female. Students, soldiers, bohemians, and bums jostle each other on the corners, while the dame de trottoir stealthily lurks in the shadows with one eye out for possible victims and the other for the agents de police. The cafés and wine-shops are aglare and the terrasse chairs are crowded to their fullest of the day.
The spectacle, therefore, of a pretty bonne racing along the middle of the street very naturally attracted considerable attention.
This attention became excitement when another woman, who seemed to spring from the same source, broke away in hot pursuit of the servant.
Nothing so generously appealed to the sensitiveness of Rue St. Jacques as a case of jealousy, and women-baiting was a favorite amusement of the quarter.