The stage had stopped.  She got out and, in spite of herself, she looked up instinctively to the roof of the bus.  It was absolutely deserted.

Then she began to cry, and, without thinking that anybody was listening or watching her, she said out loud: 

“What is going to become of me?”

An inspector approached: 

“What’s the matter?”

The conductor answered, in a bantering tone of voice: 

“It’s a lady who got left by her husband during the trip.”

The other continued: 

“Oh! that’s nothing.  You go about your business.”

Then he turned on his heels and walked away.

She began to walk straight ahead, too bewildered, too crazed even to understand what had happened to her.  Where was she to go?  What could she do?  What could have happened to him?  How could he have made such a mistake?  How could he have been so forgetful?

She had two francs in her pocket.  To whom could she go?  Suddenly she remembered her cousin Barral, one of the assistants in the offices of the Ministry of the Navy.

She had just enough to pay for a cab.  She drove to his house.  He met her just as he was leaving for his office.  He was carrying a large portfolio under his arm, just like Lebrument.

She jumped out of the carriage.

“Henry!” she cried.

He stopped, astonished: 

“Jeanne!  Here—­all alone!  What are you doing?  Where have you come from?”

Her eyes full of tears, she stammered: 

“My husband has just got lost!”

“Lost!  Where?”

“On an omnibus.”

“On an omnibus?”

Weeping, she told him her whole adventure.

He listened, thought, and then asked: 

“Was his mind clear this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Did he have much money with him?”

“Yes, he was carrying my dowry.”

“Your dowry!  The whole of it?”

“The whole of it—­in order to pay for the practice which he bought.”

“Well, my dear cousin, by this time your husband must be well on his way to Belgium.”

She could not understand.  She kept repeating: 

“My husband—­you say—­”

“I say that he has disappeared with your—­your capital—­that’s all!”

She stood there, a prey to conflicting emotions, sobbing.

“Then he is—­he is—­he is a villain!”

And, faint from excitement, she leaned her head on her cousin’s shoulder and wept.

As people were stopping to look at them, he pushed her gently into the vestibule of his house, and, supporting her with his arm around her waist, he led her up the stairs, and as his astonished servant opened the door, he ordered: 

“Sophie, run to the restaurant and get a luncheon for two.  I am not going to the office to-day.”

THE DIARY OF A MADMAN