He was in morning dress, a black cape, a blue suit with a bunch of flesh-colored carnations that “the other one” herself had no doubt pinned on the lapel of his coat. Zozé looked intently at him, her eyes dilated with horror and love.
He glanced right and left, as if hesitating. Then he set out, in his usual lolling gait, towards the rue des Mathurins; he carried his walking-stick under his arm; his shoulders were bent forward and his hands curled, shell-like, to light a cigarette.
Maddened, Zozé forgot the agreed signals. She pulled the window down and shouted to the driver:
“Go!”
The horse started at a slow trot. Madame Chambannes knocked frantically on the glass pane and, without waiting for the carriage to stop, jumped to the pavement.
The sound of the cab stopping caused Gerald to turn round. He saw the young woman and paled with uneasiness. Yet, he constrained himself to say with a heavy smile:
“What! is it you!...”
Zozé pointed to the cab and its open door: “Get in!” she commanded, harshly.
“You wish me to get in? What a funny tone of voice you are using!” stammered Gerald, again attempting a smile.
“I tell you to get in!” repeated Zozé, herself astounded at her audacity. “Come on, get in!... I am not afraid of anything, neither of people nor of scandal.... I want you to get in!”