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room. Allow me. . . .” And she slipped past the angel, cautiously and quickly, as if he were a brazier.
Madame des Aubels that morning, in her pale green tailor-made costume, was deliciously attractive. Her tight skirt displayed her movements, and her every step was one of those miracles of Nature which fill men’s hearts with amazement.
She reappeared, bag in hand.
“Once more—I ask your pardon. . . . I never dreamt that . . .”
Arcade begged her to sit down to stay a moment.
“I never expected, Monsieur,” said she, “that you would be doing the honours of this flat. I knew how dearly Monsieur d’Esparvieu loved you. . . . Nevertheless, I had no idea that . . .”
The sky had suddenly grown overcast. A brownish glare began to steal into the room. Madame des Aubels told him she had walked for her health’s sake, but a storm was brewing, and she asked if a carriage could be called for her.
Arcade flung himself at Gilberte’s feet, took her in his arms as one takes a precious piece of china, and murmured words which, being meaningless in themselves, expressed desire.
She put her hands over his eyes and on his lips, and exclaimed, “I hate you!”
And shaking with sobs, she asked for a drink of water. She was choking. The angel went to her
