"Garçon!"
"Voici, Messieurs!"
"Absinthe,—deux verres."
And he drummed with his fat fingers upon the edge of the marble slab.
"Mon Dieu!" said Maverick, with a sudden pallor on his face, "who is she?"
The eyes of Papiol fastened upon the figure which had arrested the attention of Maverick,—a lady of, may-be, forty years, fashionably, but gracefully attired, with olive-brown complexion, hair still glossy black, and attended by a strange gentleman with a brusque and foreign air.
"Who is she?" says Maverick, in a great tremor. "Do the dead come to haunt us?"
"You are facetious, my friend," said Papiol.
But in the next moment the lady opposite had raised her eyes, showing that strange double look which had been so characteristic of Madame Arles, and poor Papiol was himself fearfully distraught.
"It's true! It's true, mon ami!" he whispered his friend. "It's Julie!—elle même,—Julie!"