Guy stooped without heeding her and picked up the gloves that were lying on the carpet and handed them to the young woman:
"This is your property, I think?"
This was said with insolently refined politeness.
Marianne took the gloves, and as a last insult, like a blow on the cheek, she threw them at Guy's face, who turned aside and the gloves fell on the bed where just before these two hatreds had come together in kisses of passion.
"Miserable coward!" said Marianne, surveying Lissac from head to foot with an expression of scorn, while he stood still, his monocle dangling at the end of a fine cord on his breast, near the buttonhole of his jacket that bore the red rosette; his face was pale but wore a sly expression.
That silk rosette looked there like a vermilion note stamped on a dark ground, and it seemed to pierce like a luminous drill into Marianne's eyes; and with her head erect, pallid face and trembling lip she passed before the domestic who hastened to open the door and went downstairs, repeating to herself with all the distracted fury of a fixed idea:
"To be avenged! To be avenged! Oh! to be avenged!"
She jumped into a cab.
"Well?"—said the coachman, looking with blinking eyes at this pale-faced, distraught-looking woman.
She remained there as if seeking an idea, a purpose.