In Mme Bron's drinking bar downstairs a super, who was charged with the
part of Pluto, was drinking in solitude amid the folds of a great red
robe diapered with golden flames. The little business plied by the good
portress must have been progressing finely, for the cellarlike hole
under the stairs was wet with emptied heeltaps and water. Clarisse
picked up the tunic of Iris, which was dragging over the greasy steps
behind her, but she halted prudently at the turn in the stairs and was
content simply to crane forward and peer into the lodge. She certainly
had been quick to scent things out! Just fancy! That idiot La Faloise
was still there, sitting on the same old chair between the table and the
stove! He had made pretense of sneaking off in front of Simonne and
had returned after her departure. For the matter of that, the lodge was
still full of gentlemen who sat there gloved, elegant, submissive and
patient as ever. They were all waiting and viewing each other gravely
as they waited. On the table there were now only some dirty plates,
Mme Bron having recently distributed the last of the bouquets. A single
fallen rose was withering on the floor in the neighborhood of the black
cat, who had lain down and curled herself up while the kittens ran wild
races and danced fierce gallops among the gentlemen's legs.
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