August had almost spent itself, and Aholibah remained in the arid and flavourless town.  Her intimate friends had weeks earlier gone to Trouville, to Dinard, to Ostende, to Hombourg, even as far as Brighton; but she lingered, seemingly from perversity.  She came regularly to the cafe about eleven, always in company with her Prince, and was untiringly served by Ambroise.  He was rewarded for his fidelity with many valuable tips and latterly with gifts—­for on being questioned he was forced to admit that gratuities had to be shared with the other waiters.  He was so amiable, his smile so winning, his admiration so virginal, that Aholibah kept him near her.  Her Prince drank, sulked, or grumbled as much as ever.  He was bored by the general heat and the dulness, yet made no effort to escape either.  One night they entered after twelve o’clock.  Aholibah was in vicious humour and snapped at her garcon.  Dog-like he waited upon her, an humble, devoted helot.  He overheard her say to her companion that she must have lost the purse at the Folies-Bergeres.

“Well, go to the Rue de la Paix to-morrow and buy another,” was the reply.

“I can’t replace that purse.  Besides, it was a prized gift—­”

“From your sainted mother in heaven!” he sneered.

Ambroise saw the windows of her eyes close with a snap, and he moved away, fearing to be present in the surely impending quarrel.  He remembered the purse.  It was a long gold affair, its tiny links crusted with precious pearls—­emeralds, rubies, diamonds.  And the top he saw before him with ease, for its pattern was odd—­a snake’s head with jaws distended by a large amethyst.  Yes, it was unique, that purse.  And its value must have been bewildering for any but the idle rich.  Ah! how he hated all this money, coming from nowhere, pouring in golden streams nowhere.  He was not a revolutionist,—­not even a socialist,—­but there were times when he could have taken the neck of the Prince between his strong fingers and choked out his worthless life.  These attacks of envy were short-lived—­he could not ascribe them to the reading of the little hornet-like anarchist sheet, Pere Peinard, which the other waiters lent him; rather was it an excess of bile provoked by the coveted beauty of Aholibah.

She usurped his day dreams, his night reveries.  He never took a step without keeping her memory in the foreground.  When he closed his eyes, he saw scarlet.  When he opened them, he felt her magnetic glance upon him, though she was far from the cafe.  His one idea was to speak with her.  His maddest wish assumed the shape of a couple walking slowly arm in arm through the Bois—­she was the woman!  But this particular vision bordered on delirium, and he rarely indulged in it....  He stooped to look under the chairs, under the table, for the missing treasure.  It was not to be seen.  Indolently the Prince watched him as he peered all over the cafe, out on the terrace.  Aholibah was deeply preoccupied.  She sipped her wine without pleasure.  Her brows were thunderous.  The cart-wheel hat was tipped low over them.  Several times Ambroise sought her glance.  He could have sworn that she was regarding him steadily.  So painful became the intensity of her eyes that he withdrew in confusion.  His mind was made up at last.