The building looked quite yellow in the sunshine. I had just recognized it by a shabby eating house on the ground floor, where we had ordered our meals, having them sent up to us. Then I raised my eyes to the last window of the third floor on the left-hand side, and as I looked at it a young woman with tumbled hair, wearing a loose dressing gown, appeared and leaned her elbows on the sill. A young man followed and printed a kiss upon her neck. It was not Marguerite. Still I felt no surprise. It seemed to me that I had dreamed all this with other things, too, which I was to learn presently.
For a moment I remained in the street, uncertain whether I had better go upstairs and question the lovers, who were still laughing in the sunshine. However, I decided to enter the little restaurant below. When I started on my walk the old doctor had placed a five-franc piece in my hand. No doubt I was changed beyond recognition, for my beard had grown during the brain fever, and my face was wrinkled and haggard. As I took a seat at a small table I saw Mme Gabin come in carrying a cup; she wished to buy a penny-worth of coffee. Standing in front of the counter, she began to gossip with the landlady of the establishment.
“Well,” asked the latter, “so the poor little woman of the third floor has made up her mind at last, eh?”
“How could she help herself?” answered Mme Gabin. “It was the very best thing for her to do. Monsieur Simoneau showed her so much kindness. You see, he had finished his business in Paris to his satisfaction, for he has inherited a pot of money. Well, he offered to take her away with him to his own part of the country and place her with an aunt of his, who wants a housekeeper and companion.”
The landlady laughed archly. I buried my face in a newspaper which I picked off the table. My lips were white and my hands shook.
“It will end in a marriage, of course,” resumed Mme Gabin. “The little widow mourned for her husband very properly, and the young man was extremely well behaved. Well, they left last night—and, after all, they were free to please themselves.”
Just then the side door of the restaurant, communicating with the passage of the house, opened, and Dede appeared.
“Mother, ain’t you coming?” she cried. “I’m waiting, you know; do be quick.”
“Presently,” said the mother testily. “Don’t bother.”
The girl stood listening to the two women with the precocious shrewdness of a child born and reared amid the streets of Paris.