"C'est ainsi que la vie!"
She lifted her thin shoulders after the manner of Emile and decided to start at once. She wiped all the make-up from her face with a damp towel, swaying a little as she stood before the glass.
The excitement of her reception and the ensuing episode had made her heart beat at distressing speed.
"You're not ill," she adjured her pale reflection. "It's all imagination. Emile says all these complaints are. Any way, you're not going to give in to it."
She shut both ears and eyes as she sped through the restless city that even at this hour was astir with life.
She was only glad that there was no moon. Roused for once out of her naturally slow and indolent walk, she was soon in the poor quarter and climbing the stairs to the third floor of a horrible little house, the back of which looked out on the dark slums of the quarter of the Parelelo, the breeding-place of revolutions; the district between the Rambla and the Harbour.
The house was like the one that Emile had described when telling her of the murdered woman, Félise Rivaz.
The very air reeked of intrigue and hidden deeds.
She looked round first of all for Emile, but he was not there, and only half the usual number of conspirators were assembled.
Vardri, who had left the Hippodrome the minute he had delivered his message, was sitting on the end of the table swinging his feet and whistling softly.