The old revolutionist arose to make a short rebuttal, repeating the contentions of his original speech, of which no denial had been attempted.
"I'm quite tired," sighed Rafael, in reply to the felicitations.
"You can go out if you wish," said the minister. "I think I'll answer the rebuttal myself. It's a courtesy due to so old a deputy."
Rafael raised his eyes toward the diplomatic gallery. It was empty. But he imagined he could still make out the plumes of a woman's hat in the dark background.
He left his bench hastily and hurried to the corridor, where a number of deputies were waiting with their congratulations.
Not one of them had heard him, but they were all profuse in their flattering remarks. They shook his hand and detained him maddeningly. Once more he thought he could descry at the end of the corridor, at the foot of the gallery staircase, standing out against the glass exit-door, those black, waving plumes.
He elbowed his way through the crowds, deaf to all congratulations, brushing aside the hands that were proferred to him.
Near the door he stumbled into two of his associates, who were looking out with eyes radiant with admiration.
"What a woman? Eh?"
"She looks like a foreigner. Some diplomat's wife, I guess!"