"Eugénie is not here?" I asked.
"No, she is not here," answered the tall girl, dryly.
"And William?"
"Nor William either."
"Where is he?"
"How do I know?"
"I want to see him. Go tell him I want to see him."
The tall girl looked at me scornfully.
"Say, am I your servant?"
I understood it all. And, being tired of struggling, I went away.
"It is life."
This phrase pursued me, obsessed me, like a music-hall refrain.
And, as I went away, I could not help thinking, not without a feeling of sorrowful melancholy, of the joy with which I had been welcomed in that house. The same scene must have taken place. They had opened the usual bottle of champagne. William had taken the blonde girl on his knees, and had whispered in her ear:
"You will have to be nice with Baby."
The same words, the same movements, the same caresses, while Eugénie, devouring the janitor's son with her eyes, led him into the adjoining room.
"Your little phiz, your little hands, your big eyes!"
