The terrified servant makes a dash for the nearest door and escapes through the adjoining conservatory. Frederick, scorning to pursue him, turns his attention to Rose. Brutally grasping her arm, he raises her from the ground where she has flung herself on her knees at his feet, and without a word he drags her down stairs, stopping for a moment in the hall below to throw a gorgeous red-brocaded opera-cloak, which hangs there, on the speechless woman's shoulders. Opening the front door, he thrusts her into the street, exclaiming hoarsely as he bangs it behind her:
“That is where you belong.”
For a few minutes Rose stood on the pavement, dazed and trembling, but suddenly recalling to mind the expression of her infuriated husband's eyes as he pushed her down stairs she was seized with terror and fled down the avenue.
She had not gone very far when two men, springing from a dark side street, arrested her wild flight by clutching her arms.
“Where is your police permit?” exclaimed the taller of the two.
Rose stared helplessly at them without replying.
“Why don't you answer?” yelled the other, shaking her violently. “Don't you hear me talking to you? Are you drunk?”
The unfortunate woman draws herself up, and, shaking off the dirty hand of the “Agents-des-Mœurs” (police charged with the control of the women of ill-repute,) replied:
“I do not know what you mean. There is some mistake. I am the Countesse de Waldberg; let me go!”
“Countess indeed! Is that all? We know all about such countesses. They belong in the St. Lazarre Prison when they run round without their ‘livret’(police permit.) Allons! come along! Enough of these airs and graces! A decent woman does not pace the streets at midnight in a ball-dress.”