But beneath all these pretences of content lay a hollow sense of desolation. It was not the want of butter nor the diminished meat; it was the total removal from life of that intangible splendour of hope produced by the lottery ticket. Ah! every day was drawn blank now. This gloom, this gnawing emptiness at the heart, was worse than either had foreseen or now confessed. Malicious Fate, too, they felt, would even crown with the _grand prix_ the number they would have chosen. But for the prospective draw for the Wig--which reintroduced the aleatory--life would scarcely have been bearable.
Madame Dépine's sister-in-law's visit by the June excursion train was a not unexpected catastrophe. It only lasted a day, but it put back the Grey Wig by a week, for Madame Choucrou had to be fed at Duval's, and Madame Valière magnanimously insisted on being of the party: whether to run parallel with her friend, or to carry off the brown wig, she alone knew. Fortunately, Madame Choucrou was both short-sighted and colour-blind. On the other hand, she liked a _petit verre_ with her coffee, and both at a separate restaurant. But never had Madame Valière appeared to Madame Dépine's eyes more like the "Princess," more gay and polished and debonair, than at this little round table on the sunlit Boulevard. Little trills of laughter came from the half-toothless gums; long gloved fingers toyed with the liqueur glass or drew out the old-fashioned watch to see that Madame Choucrou did not miss her train; she spent her sou royally on a hawked journal. When they had seen Madame Choucrou off, she proposed to dock meat entirely for a fortnight so as to regain the week. Madame Dépine accepted in the same heroic spirit, and even suggested the elimination of the figs: one could lunch quite well on bread and milk, now the sunshine was here. But Madame Valière only agreed to a week's trial of this, for she had a sweet tooth among the few in her gums.
The very next morning, as they walked in the Luxembourg Gardens, Madame Dépine's foot kicked against something. She stooped and saw a shining glory--a five-franc piece!
"Nothing," said Madame Dépine, covering the coin with her foot. "My bootlace." And she bent down--to pick up the coin, to fumble at her bootlace, and to cover her furious blush. It was not that she wished to keep the godsend to herself,--one saw on the instant that _le bon Dieu_ was paying for Madame Choucrou,--it was an instantaneous dread of the "Princess's" quixotic code of honour. La Valière was capable of flying in the face of Providence, of taking the windfall to a _bureau de police_. As if the inspector wouldn't stick to it himself! A purse--yes. But a five-franc piece, one of a flock of sheep!