Certainly Josephine had no reason to complain of her lover's conduct, and if at times he demanded of her a blind submission, he never treated her with that fierce brutality which characterised most of his fellows. But if Josephine had felt any leaning toward a good life, or any scruples of conscience, she must necessarily have thrown them overboard as soon as her connection with Loupart began. With a different start in life she might have become an honest little woman, but circumstances made her the mistress of a hooligan ring-leader, and, everything considered, she had a certain pride in being so, without imitating the vulgar and brutal behaviour of her companions.
At the third summons, Loupart, none too patient, drove the door in with a vigorous shove of his shoulders.
Josephine's apartment, a comfortable and spacious room, with a fine bird's-eye view of Paris, was empty.
Fancying his mistress was at some neighbour's gossiping, he bawled: "Josephine! Come here!"
Heads appeared, looking anxiously out of rooms on the same floor.
"Where is Josephine?" Loupart cried.
Mme. Guinon came forward.
"I don't know," she replied, stammering. "She complained of pains in her stomach last evening, and I was told she's gone."
"Gone? Gone where?" stormed Loupart.
"Why, I don't know; it was Julie who told me."