For twenty-four hours he had not ceased thinking of the girl with the
tambourine, of her savage, sullen grace, her magnificent poise and
strange glance. He had learned at his hotel that she was called "_Debora
la folle_," and that she was the daughter of the still crazier Baki. Was
she some sort of a gypsy, or a Continental version of Salvation Army
lass? No one knew. Each year, at the beginning of autumn, the pair
wandered into Rouen, remained a few weeks, and disappeared. Where?
Paris, perhaps, or Italy or--_la bas!_ The shoulder-shrugging proved
that Baki and his daughter were not highly regarded by reputable
citizens of Rouen, though the street people followed their music and
singing as long as it lasted. Singing? queried Ferval; does the woman
sing?
He became more interested. His visits to the country where Pissarro
painted and Flaubert wrote revealed other possibilities besides those
purely artistic ones in which this amateur of fine shades and sensations
delighted. He did not deny, on the esplanade where behind him stood
Bonsecours and the monument of Jeanne d'Arc, that souvenirs of the girl
had kept his eyelids from closing during the major portion of the night.
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