But she swung round quickly with an incoherent cry. "Non, non, Pierrot—je ne veux pas!" Her face looked frightened. She thrust him back, a sudden remorse awake in her heart.
McTaggart laughed. She read in his eyes amusement at her show of resistance.
And the knowledge of this and his lack of respect swept aside her lingering scruples. Her mood veered round. A feverish exultation spurred her now down the path of revenge.
"Naughty boy!" She shook her head and was gone, with a laughing backward glance.
Left to himself, McTaggart strolled about, stretching his long legs, cramped in the box.
A memory brought him back to the mantelpiece, and he sought for and found the faded photograph.
Once more he gazed at the sinister face, with its black beard and evil eyes. It held a curious fascination for him, repulsive and mesmeric at the same time. He saw that a name was written beneath, indistinct in violet ink, and holding it nearer to the light he deciphered "Gustave," with a slight start. Below it was a blotted date and then "Alger" clear and bright, where a frame had once protected the edge.
He put it back behind the mirror, a frown on his face, his mouth tight.
So that was the husband. What a brute! ...
His pity stirred beneath his disgust. He thought of Fantine, dainty and sweet, at the mercy of such a type. Thank God the man was dead!