“Does madame want a carriage?”
“Yes, tha it! A closed carriage ... or, rather, no! No carriage.... Hurry up!”
A bellicose haste speeded her on. She must be ready in time. She was rushing towards this supreme torture: to surprise the guilty ones as if it were a matchless joy; her nostrils vibrated, a savage smile lurked in the corner of her lips and her eyes shone with eagerness.
She was out at a quarter of eleven. She walked up the rue de Prony and crossed the parc Monceau. A gardener was removing the narrow sheathes of straw from round the exotic trees. The budding foliage spaced their masses which still admitted daylight; it had not lost its very pale green tints; a fresh perfume rolled softly on the breeze. The contrast of this riot of the elements saddened Zozé. She opened her sunshade, for the sun was already hot; as she walked she uttered long regretful whispers as if she were never again to see these graceful lawns nor breathe the balmy air.
She made an effort to stiffen herself against the softening reverie and called a passing closed cab:
“Listen carefully,” she ordered the driver. “We are going to the rue Gaudot-de Mauroi.... When I knock on the glass, you are to stop ... not to move again.... You will keep your seat and wait.... If I knock twice, you are to start again, slowly.... If I knock three times, you start at a trot.... Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame!” the driver said paternally. He was fat and wore a moustache; the mystery of the affair and her young captai tone amused him.
“Very well then, start!... There will be a good tip for you!”
The carriage went down the avenue de Messine.
As she approached the point of attack, Zozé saw her ardor weakening. She felt as if she were choking under heavy blows on her chest; then she fancied that her heart had become a poor little bird, and a brutal hand squeezed it. She kept her eyes closed, so as not to count the houses which were passing too fast.