The child cried; she threw herself down beside him, pressing him violently to her. He struggled. She held him tightly—muttering unconsciously, “My body, my Soul, my little Martin,” peering into his face—as if seeking something to console her. These paroxysms of despair sapped her strength. She was no longer apathetic, but groping, groping for some remedy. She’d go back always to those wonderful days with Martin. She was religious at heart, but she would have gladly given her hopes of redemption to be able to look into the mirror and see once more her young face, her soft dark hair. Hippolyte had admired her hair; she saw him again, so suave, so handsome, heard his exquisite French, caught again the laughing significance of the looks which passed between the two men—It was madly fascinating; day and night it all repeated itself in her brain, revolving like an ever-turning wheel—Martin—Hippolyte—Pierrot—the sweet, pungent odor of the place; then the suggestion worked. Hippolyte had often told them of his wonderful salves, lotions, hair restorers—he might know a way to restore the color of her hair. She looked up his address—took the receiver in her hand, a moment of fear, irresolution, then she called the number.
“I want to speak to Hippolyte.”
“Oui, Madame, I am here.”
His voice set her nerves quivering.
“It’s Mrs. Garrison speaking. You don’t know my married name, I was Julie Gonzola.”
“Madame, I knew your voice. How could I forget it?”
“Will you come and see me today at four? Thank you.”
She was terribly excited. What would he think when he saw her now? He must help her—he must! It was her last hope.
Punctually at four, the boy knocked.
“A gentleman downstairs.”