“Impossible, my poor Kreisler! Five francs. No more!”

Suzanne stood at attention before him in the hall of the Mont de Piété. If she had been inexorable before, she was now doubly so beneath the eyes of the veritable officials. The sight of them,[101] and the half-official status of go-between and interpreter, urged her to ape-like importance.

With flushed and angry face, raised eyebrows, shocked at his questioning the verdict, she repeated, “Five francs; it’s the most.”

“No, that’s no good; give me the portmanteau,” he said.

She gave it him in silence, eyebrows still raised, eyes fixed, staring with intelligent disapproval right in front of her. She did not look at her eminent countrymen behind the large counter. But her intelligent and significant stare, lost in space, was meant to meet and fraternize with probable similar stares of theirs, lost in the same intelligent void.

Her face fixed in distended, rubicund, discontentedly resigned mask, she walked on beside him, the turkey-like backward-forward motion of fat neck marking her ruffled state. Kreisler sat down on a bench of the Boulevard du Paradis, she beside him.

“Dis! couldn’t you have borrowed the rest?” she said at last.

Kreisler was tired. He got up.

“No, of course I couldn’t. I hate people who lend money as I hate pawnbrokers.”

Suzanne listened, with protesting grin. Her head nodded energetically.

“Eh bien! si tout le monde pensait comme toi?!”

He pushed his moustache up and frowned pathetically.

“Où est Monsieur Volker?” she asked.

“Volker? I don’t know. He has no money.”

“Comment! Il n’a pas d’argent? C’est pas vrai! Tu ne le vois plus?”

“Good-bye.” Kreisler left Suzanne seated, staring after him.

The portmanteau dragged along, he strod............