Yet something was gone: the note of youth, the joyous, half-defiant charm. This was a woman, middle-aged, broken in health but still proud.
"Per'aps you did not learn my trouble? No?"—she glanced up at him—"The flat was raided by the police. I had to pay a heavy fine. It was not mine to keep or let; it belonged to a certain ... Monsieur. But in my name, you understan'? I to take all the risk. And when it failed he vanished—pouf!" she threw out her hands mockingly—"into thin air, as you say. And I was left ... dans le potage!
"It was not soup you could drink, Pierrot, like Monsieur Auguste's 'pot-au-feu'—and ... one eats to live—or at least those do who can't afford to live to eat! An' so I had to start again, with a very slim capital—the furniture ... a few jewels..."
She stared moodily before her.
"That's where the devil comes in, Pierrot,—and mocks at all the saints in Heaven! ... Not that I wish to become a saint"—she shot him an amused glance with one of her old mocking smiles—"Dieu merci! I love life—an' pretty frocks and a good cuisine. You remember our last evening together? The—music? ... ah!" she clasped her hands and a curious look came into her eyes. "I am glad," she added beneath her breath—"that nothing spoilt that memory."
Little she guessed that the man beside her caught the full meaning of the words: that his last rancour vanished with it as he guessed the truth underlying the speech.
The face in the photograph rose up, with its evil eyes and its ruthless mouth; that "certain ... Monsieur" called "Gustave"—the treacherous master-mind.
Poor little woman!—In such bad hands—deserted too in her hour of need...
"What did you do?" he asked gently. "I'd no idea of all this worry. I'm really awfully sorry, Fantine," he laid a hand over hers.
She gave him a sudden brilliant smile.