Frederick added with an air of indifference:
"Now that I think of it, do you still see—what's that his name is?—that ex-vocalist—Delmar?"
She replied dryly:
"No; that's all over."
So it was clear that there had been a rupture between them. Frederick derived some hope from this circumstance.
They descended the Quartier Bréda at an easy pace. As it happened to be Sunday, the streets were deserted, and some citizens' faces presented themselves at the windows. The carriage went on more rapidly. The noise of wheels made the passers-by turn round; the leather of the hood, which had slid down, was glittering. The man-servant doubled himself up, and the two Havanese, beside one another, seemed like two ermine muffs laid on the cushions. Frederick let himself jog up and down with the rocking of the carriage-straps. The Maréchale turned her head to the right and to the left with a smile on her face.
Her straw hat of mother-of-pearl colour was trimmed with black lace. The hood of her bournous floated in the wind, and she sheltered herself from the rays of the sun under a parasol of lilac satin pointed at the top like a pagoda.
"What loves of little fingers!" said Frederick, softly taking her other hand, her left being adorned with a gold bracelet in the form of a curb-chain.
"I say! that's pretty! Where did it come from?"
"Oh! I've had it a long time," said the Maréchale.