He saw clearly now what sort of woman was Mme. Zelie Cadelle; how he should speak to her, and what cords he might yet cause to vibrate within her. He recognized the true daughter of Paris, wayward and nervous, who in the midst of her disorders preserves an instinctive pride; who places her independence far above all the money in the world; who gives, rather than sells, herself; who knows no law but her caprice, no morality but the policeman, no religion but pleasure.
As soon as she had returned to her seat,
“There you are dancing gayly,” he said, “and poor Vincent is doubtless groaning at this moment over his separation from you.”
“Ah! I’d pity him if I had time,” she said.
“He was fond of you?”
“Don’t speak of it.”
“If he had not been fond of you, he would not have put you here.”
Mme. Zelie made a little face of equivocal meaning.
“What proof is that?” she murmured.
“He would not have spent so much money for you.”