The next day was for him a free one.  He wandered up and down the Rue de la Paix staring moodily into the jewellers’ windows.  That night, though he could have stayed away from the cafe, he returned at ten o’clock, and luckily enough was needed.  Joseph greeted him effusively.  The “mast,” the thin fellow from Marseilles, had gone home with a splitting headache.  Would Ambroise stay and serve his usual table?  To his immense astonishment and joy he saw her enter alone.  He took her wraps and seated her on her favourite divan near an electric fan.  Then he stared expectantly at the door.  But her carriage had driven away.  Was a part of his dream coming true?  He closed his eyes, and straightway saw scarlet.  Then he went for wine, without taking her order.

Aholibah was preoccupied.  She played with the bracelet on her tawny left wrist.  Occasionally she lifted her glass, or else tossed her hair from her eyes.  If any stranger ventured near her, she began to hum insolently, or spoke earnestly with Ambroise.  He was in the eleventh heaven of the Persians.  Two Ambroises appeared to be in him:  one served his lady, spoke with her; the other from afar contemplated with the ecstasy of a hasheesh eater his counterfeit brother.  It was an exquisite sensation.

“The purse—­has Mademoiselle—­” He stammered.

“No,” she crisply answered.

“Can it never be duplicated?  Perhaps—­”

“Never.  It is impossible.  It was made in Africa.”

“But—­but—­” he persisted.  His bearing was so peculiar that she bent upon him her dynamic gaze.

“What’s the matter with you this evening, Ambroise?  Have you come into a successful lottery ticket?  Or—­” She was suspiciously looking at him.  “Or—­you haven’t found it?”

He nodded his head, his face beatific with joy.  He resembled the youthful Saint George after slaying the dragon.  She was startled.  Her eyes positively lightened; he listened for the attendant peal of thunder.

“Speak out, you booby.  Cornichon!  Where did you find it?  Let me see it—­at once.”  All fire and imperiousness, she held out grasping fingers.  He shook.  And then carefully he drew from the inside pocket of his coat, the purse.  She snatched it.  Yes—­it was her purse.  And yet there was something strange about it.  Had the stones been tampered with?  She examined it searchingly.  She boasted a jeweller’s knowledge of diamonds and rubies.  One of the stones had been transposed, that she could have sworn.  And how different the expression of the serpent’s eyes—­small carbuncles.  No—­it was not her purse!  She looked at Ambroise.  He was paling and reddening in rapid succession.

“It is not my purse!  How did this come into your possession?  It is very valuable, quite as valuable as mine.  But the eyes of my serpent were not so large—­I mean the carbuncles.  Ambroise—­look at me!  I command you!  Where did you find this treasure—­cher ami!” Her seductive voice lingered on the last words as if they were a morsel of delicious fruit.  He leaned heavily on the table and closed his eyes to shut out her face—­but he only saw scarlet.  He heard scarlet.