She laughed shrilly. He went for the
drink. She lighted a cigarette....
Every night for six months she haunted the cafe. She was always
unattended, always in excellent humour. She made few friends among the
students. Her scarlet dress grew shabbier. Her gloves and boots were
pitiful to Ambroise, who recalled her former splendours, her outrageous
extravagances. Why had fortune flouted her! Why had she let it, like
water, escape through her jewelled, indifferent fingers! He made no
inquiries. She vouchsafed none. They were now on a different footing.
Tantalizingly she dangled the purse under his nose as he brought her
absinthe--always this opalescent absinthe. She drank it in the morning,
in the afternoon, at night. She seldom spoke save to Ambroise. And
he--he no longer saw scarlet, for the glorious tone of her hat and gown
had vanished. They were rusty red, a carroty tint. Her face was like the
mask of La Buveuse d'Absinthe, by Felicien Rops; her eyes, black wells
of regard; her hair without lustre, and coarse as the mane of a horse.
Aholibah no longer manifested interest in the life of Paris.
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