The woman's face was quite changed by her agitation. Sophia drew
away, offended. She watched the pair from a distance for a few
moments, and then, furious in disillusion, she escaped from the
fever of the boulevards and walked quietly home. Madame Foucault
did not return. Apparently Madame Foucault was doomed to be the
toy of chance. Two days later Sophia received a scrawled letter
from her, with the information that her lover had required that
she should accompany him to Brussels, as Paris would soon be
getting dangerous. "He adores me always. He is the most delicious
boy. As I have always said, this is the grand passion of my life.
I am happy. He would not permit me to come to you. He has spent
two thousand francs on clothes for me, since naturally I had
nothing." And so on. No word of apology. Sophia, in reading the
letter, allowed for a certain exaggeration and twisting of the
truth.
"Young fool! Fool!" she burst out angrily. She did not mean
herself; she meant the fatuous adorer of that dilapidated,
horrible woman. She never saw her again. Doubtless Madame Foucault
fulfilled her own prediction as to her ultimate destiny, but in
Brussels.
II
Sophia still possessed about a hundred pounds, and had she chosen
to leave Paris and France, there was nothing to prevent her from
doing so.
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