Zoe, meanwhile, was still
dissatisfied with her washing. She kept looking at the stain, and every
time she passed it she repeated:
"You know it's not gone yet, madame."
As a matter of fact, the pale red stain kept reappearing on one of
the white roses in the carpet pattern. It was as though, on the very
threshold of the room, a splash of blood were barring the doorway.
"Bah!" said the joyous Nana. "That'll be rubbed out under people's feet."
After the following day Count Muffat had likewise forgotten the
incident. For a moment or two, when in the cab which drove him to the
Rue Richelieu, he had busily sworn never to return to that woman's
house. Heaven was warning him; the misfortunes of Philippe and Georges
were, he opined, prophetic of his proper ruin. But neither the sight
of Mme Hugon in tears nor that of the boy burning with fever had been
strong enough to make him keep his vow, and the short-lived horror of
the situation had only left behind it a sense of secret delight at the
thought that he was now well quit of a rival, the charm of whose
youth had always exasperated him. His passion had by this time grown
exclusive; it was, indeed, the passion of a man who has had no youth.
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