"How splendid you look, my dear Alphonse!" exclaimed Lisette, little dreaming it was the same suit that she had approved on Tricotrin the previous evening.
Her innocent admiration was agreeable to Pomponnet; he patted her on the cheek.
"In truth," he said carelessly, "I had forgotten that I had it on! But I was so impatient for to-morrow, my pet angel, that I could not remain alone and I had to come to see you."
They were talking on her doorstep, for she had no apartment in which it would have been convenable to entertain him, and it appeared to him that the terrace of a café would be more congenial.
"Run upstairs and make your toilette, my loving duck," he suggested, "and I shall take you out for a tasse. While you are getting ready, I will smoke a cigar." And he drew his cigar-case from the breast-pocket of the coat, and took a match-box from the pocket where he had put his cash.
It was a balmy evening, sweet with the odour of spring, and the streets were full of life. As he promenaded with her on the boulevard, Pomponnet did not fail to remark the attention commanded by his costume. He strutted proudly, and when they reached the café and took their seats, he gave his order with the authority of the President.
"Ah!" he remarked, "it is good here, hein?" And then, stretching his legs, he thrust both his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Comment?" he murmured. "What have I found?… Now is not this amusing—I swear it is a billet-doux!" He bent, chuckling, to the light—and bounded in his chair with an oath that turned a dozen heads towards them. "Traitress," roared Pomponnet, "miserable traitress! It is your name! It is your writing! It is your hair! Do not deny it; give me your head—it matches to a shade! Jezebel, last night you met monsieur Tricotrin—you have deceived me!"
Lisette, who had jumped as high as he in recognising the envelope, sat like one paralysed now. Her tongue refused to move. For an instant, the catastrophe seemed to her of supernatural agency—it was as if a miracle had happened, as she saw her fiancé produce her lover's keepsake. All she could stammer at last was:
"Let us go away—pay for the coffee!"
"I will not pay," shouted monsieur Pomponnet. "Pay for it yourself, jade—I have done with you!" And, leaving her spellbound at the table, he strode from the terrace like a madman before the waiters could stop him.