"Perhaps he is gore out of the city," she thought; and a terror fell on
her that frightened her, it was so unlike any fear that she had ever
known--even the fear when she had seen death on old Antoine's face had
been nothing like this.
Going home through the streets, she passed the cafe of the Trois Freres
that looks out on the trees of the park, and that has flowers in its
balconies, and pleasant windows that stand open to let the sounds of the
soldiers' music enter. She saw him in one of the windows. There were
amber and scarlet and black; silks and satins and velvets. There was a
fan painted and jewelled. There were women's faces. There was a heap of
purple fruit and glittering sweetmeats. He laughed there. His beautiful
Murillo head was dark against the white and gold within.
Bebee looked up,--paused a second,--then went onward, with a thorn in her
heart.
He Had not seen her.
"It is natural, of course--he has his world--he does not think often of
me--there is no reason why he should be as good as he is," she said to
herself as she went slowly over the stones.
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