her and gone to live with Octavie, the bread-woman’s daughter, and she let loose a torrent of abuse against the traitor.
“A man whom I’ve kept going with my own money for fifty years and more. For I’ve had plenty of the needful and known plenty of the upper ten and all, I dragged him out of the gutter and now this is what I get for it. He’s a bright beauty, that friend of yours. The lazy scoundrel. Why, he had to be dressed iike a child, the drunken contemptible brute. You don’t know him yet, Monsieur Sariette. He’s a forger. He turns out Giottos, Giottos, I tell you, and Fra Angelicos and Grecos, as hard as he can and sells them to art-dealers—yes, and Fragonards too, and Baudouins. He’s a debauchee, and doesn’t believe in God! That’s the worst of the lot, Monsieur Sariette, for without the fear of God . . .”
Long did Zephyrine continue to pour forth vituperations. When at last her breath failed her, Monsieur Sariette availed himself of the opportunity to exhort her to be calm and bring herself to look on the bright side of things. Guinardon would come back. A man doesn’t forget anyone he’s lived and got on well with for fifty years———
These two observations only goaded her to a fresh outburst, and Zephyrine swore she would never forget the slight that had been put on her; she swore she would never have the monster back with
