Maxence could have beaten her.
“What good would it do you,” he replied, “if Lucienne were to turn out badly?”
“It’s always a pleasure,” she grumbled, “to have one more woman to torment the men. Those are the girls, you see, who avenge us poor honest women!”
The sequel seemed at first to justify her worst previsions. Three times during that week, Mlle. Lucienne rode out in grand style; but as she always returned, and always resumed her eternal black woolen dress,
“I can’t make head or tail of it,” thought Maxence. “But never mind, I’ll clear the matter up yet.”
He applied, and obtained leave of absence; and from the very next day he took up a position behind the window of the adjoining Café. On the first day he lost his time; but on the second day, at about three o’clock, the famous equipage made its appearance; and, a few moments later, Mlle. Lucienne took a seat in it. Her toilet was richer, and more showy still, than the first time. Maxence jumped into a cab.
“You see that carriage,” he said to the coachman, “Wherever it goes, you must follow it. I give ten francs extra pay.”
“All right!” replied the driver, whipping up his horses.
And much need he had, too, of whipping them; for the carriage that carried off Mlle. Lucienne started at full trot down the Boulevards, to the Madeleine, then along the Rue Royale, and through the Place de la Concorde, to the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, where the horses were brought down to a walk. It was the end of September, and one of those lovely autumnal days which are a last smile of the blue sky and the last caress of the sun.
There were races in the Bois de Boulogne; and the equipages were five and six abreast on the avenue. The side-alleys were crowded with idlers. Maxence, from the inside of his cab, never lost sight of Mlle. Lucienne.