Jupillon had recognized Germinie. When he saw her rise and approach him, with her eyes fixed upon his face, he whispered something to the woman in the hood, rested his elbows defiantly on the table and waited.
"Hallo! you here," he exclaimed when Germinie stood before him, erect, motionless and mute. "This is a surprise!—Waiter! another bowl!"
And, emptying the bowl of sweetened wine into the two women's glasses, he continued: "Come, don't make up faces—sit down there."
And, as Germinie did not budge: "Go on! These ladies are friends of mine—ask them!"
"Mélie," said the woman in the hood to the other woman, in a voice like a diseased crow's, "don't you see? She's monsieur's mother. Make room for the lady if she'd like to drink with us."
Germinie cast a murderous glance at the woman.
"Well! what's the matter?" the woman continued; "that don't suit you, madame, eh? Excuse me! you ought to have told me beforehand. How old do you suppose she is, Mélie, eh? Sapristi! You select young ones, my boy, you don't put yourself out!"
Jupillon smiled internally, and simpered and sneered externally. His whole manner displayed the cowardly delight that evil-minded persons take in watching the suffering of those who suffer because of loving them.
"I have something to say to you—to you!—not here—outside," said Germinie.
"Much joy to you! Coming, Mélie?" said the woman in the hood, lighting the stub of a cigar that Jupillon had left on the table beside a piece of lemon.