But all the day through he never came.

Bébée sat with a sick heart and a parched little throat, selling her
flowers and straining her eyes through the tumult of the square.

The whole day went by, and there was no sign of him.

The flowers had sold well: it was a feast day; her pouch was full of
pence--what was that to her?

She went and prayed in the cathedral, but it seemed cold, and desolate,
and empty; even the storied windows seemed dark.

"Perhaps he is gore out of the city," she thought; and a terror fell on
her that frightened her, it was so unlike any fear that she had ever
known--even the fear when she had seen death on old Antoine's face had
been nothing like this.

Going home through the streets, she passed the café of the Trois Frères
that looks out on the trees of the park, and that has flowers in its
balconies, and pleasant windows that stand open to let the sounds of the
soldiers' music enter. She saw him in one of the windows. There were
amber and scarlet and black; silks and satins and velvets. There was a
fan painted and jewelled. There were women's faces. There was a heap of
purple fruit and glittering sweetmeats. He laughed there. His beautiful
Murillo head was dark against the white and gold within.

Bébée looked up,--paused a second,--then went onward, with a thorn in her
heart.