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, _Père 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 café. His one idea was to speak with
her. His maddest wish assumed the shape of a couple walking slowly arm
in arm through the Bois--_she_ was the woman! But this particular vision
bordered on delirium, and he rarely indulged in it.... He stooped to
look under the chairs, under the table, for the missing treasure. It was
not to be seen. Indolently the Prince watched him as he peered all over
the café, out on the terrace. Aholibah was deeply preoccupied. She
sipped her wine without pleasure. Her brows were thunderous. The
cart-wheel hat was tipped low over them. Several times Ambroise sought
her glance. He could have sworn that she was regarding him steadily. So
painful became the intensity of her eyes that he withdrew in confusion.
His mind was made up at last.

The next day was for him a free one. He wandered up and down the Rue de
la Paix staring moodily into the jewellers' windows. That night, though