'But when did you last see the girl?' roared Eus&be,
by this time all but slobbering with fury.
'Yesterday evening — you had only just gone, and
exceedingly drunk you were, I remember. She came
in and sat with Beauvais for awhile. She seemed
agitated but Beauvais was laughing. Presently she
left, I supposed for her home, but I did not enquire,
it was no affair of mine — you yourself had seen them
here many evenings. This morning Beauvais paid his
bill and departed; his tips, I am told, were extremely
generous. To me his conduct was above reproach,
though what may have happened upstairs in the bed-
room. . . . However, I really cannot bore little holes
in the walls in order to spy on my clients!'
'They might retaliate in kind!3 he retorted.
Then Mere Melanie's composure abruptly left her:
'Enough of your insults, you drunken old liar. You
have called my respectable cafe a bordel, yes, and
now you make dirty insinuations! Bien, this I tell
you: not one litre of wine from your vineyards shall
enter my doors next season. As for you, you can go
and you need not return; you can take yourself
further along the quay. I am sick of your filth and your
filthy ways; when you are drunk you pollute the floor
— the waiter has made me representations. Get out!
Did you hear me? I said get out!3 And she laid a
ruthless hand on his collar.
But habit is the only real solace of old age and
Eusebe peered at his table, at the table where he had
tippled for years, dreaming those frequently scandal-
ous dreams that lurked for him in Mere Melanie's
bottles; and Eusebe peered at his chair, the one chair
in the room with arms and a cushion; then he peered
at Mere Melanie's beetle-brows, and then at the
hump on her little violinist.
'Mem&re, do not be so hard-hearted,' he coaxed,
squirming feebly in her masterful grip; 'memere,
4*5