h remained in the arid and
flavourless town. Her intimate friends had weeks earlier gone to
Trouville, to Dinard, to Ostende, to Hombourg, even as far as Brighton;
but she lingered, seemingly from perversity. She came regularly to the
cafe about eleven, always in company with her Prince, and was untiringly
served by Ambroise. He was rewarded for his fidelity with many valuable
tips and latterly with gifts--for on being questioned he was forced to
admit that gratuities had to be shared with the other waiters. He was so
amiable, his smile so winning, his admiration so virginal, that
Aholibah kept him near her. Her Prince drank, sulked, or grumbled as
much as ever. He was bored by the general heat and the dulness, yet made
no effort to escape either. One night they entered after twelve o'clock.
Aholibah was in vicious humour and snapped at her garcon. Dog-like he
waited upon her, an humble, devoted helot. He overheard her say to her
companion that she must have lost the purse at the Folies-Bergeres.

"Well, go to the Rue de la Paix to-morrow and buy another," was the
reply.

"I can't replace that purse. Besides, it was a prized gift--"

"From your sainted mother in heaven!" he sneered.

Ambroise saw the windows of her eyes close with a snap, and he moved
away, fearing to be present in the surely impending quarrel. He
remembered the purse. It was a long gold affair, its tiny links crusted
with precious pearls--emeralds, rubies, diamonds. And the top he saw
before him with ease, for its pattern was odd--a snake's head with jaws
distended by a large amethyst. Yes, it was unique, that purse. And its
value must have been bewildering for any but the idle rich. Ah! how he
hated all this money, coming from nowhere, pouring in golden streams
nowhere. He was not a revolutionist,--not even a socialist,--but there
were times when he could have taken the neck of the Prince between his
strong fingers and choked out his worthless life. These attacks of envy
were short-lived--he could not ascribe them to the reading of the little
hornet-like anarchist sheet, _Pere Peinard_, which the other waiters
lent him; rather was it an excess of bile provoked by the coveted beauty
of Aholibah.

She usurped his day dreams, his night reveries. He never took a step
without keeping her memory in the foreground. When he closed his eyes,
he saw scarlet. When he opened them, he felt her magnetic glance upon
him, though she was far from the cafe. His on