"
The driver whipped up his horse most mercilessly, and growled, "It's no
use, I must catch her. For twenty francs, I would have let her escape;
for I love the girls, and am on their side. But, fancy! Forty francs! I
wonder how such an ugly man can be so jealous."
Old Tabaret tried in every way to occupy his mind with other matters. He
did not wish to reflect before seeing the woman, speaking with her, and
carefully questioning her.
He was sure that by one word she would either condemn or save her lover.
"What! condemn Noel? Ah, well! yes."
The idea that Noel was the assassin harassed and tormented him, and
buzzed in his brain, like the moth which flies again and again against
the window where it sees a light.
As they passed the Chaussee d'Antin, the brougham was scarcely thirty
paces in advance. The cab driver turned, and said: "But the Brougham is
stopping."
"Then stop also. Don't lose sight of it; but be ready to follow it again
as soon as it goes off."
Old Tabaret leaned as far as he could out of the cab.
The young woman alighted, crossed the pavement, and entered a shop where
cashmeres and laces were sold.
"There," thought the old fellow, "is where the thousand franc notes go!
Half a million in four years! What can these creatures do with the money
so lavishly bestowed upon them? Do they eat it? On the altar of what
caprices do they squander these fortunes? They must have the devil's own
potions which they give to drink to the idiots who ruin themselves
for them.
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