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The postman had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not correct. It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting, tore open the envelope, and read: Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug- Zoug's name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah's blessing, with Zoug-Zoug's! What fame you've got now dompteuse, and the sweet scandal!
"The woman is Mademoiselle Victorine, the dompteuse." "Ah, I've not seen her yet. She burst upon Paris while I was away. Now, straight: no lies: who are the others?" Meyerbeer hesitated; for, of course, he did not wish to speak of Gaston at this stage in the game. But he said: "Count Ploare and Zoug-Zoug." "Why don't you tell me the truth?" "I do. Now, who is Zoug-Zoug?" "Find out."
The postman had not delivered it on his rounds, because the address was not correct. It was for madame. Andree took it, started at the handwriting, tore open the envelope, and read: Zoug-Zoug congratulates you on the conquest of his nephew. Zoug Zoug's name is not George Maur, as you knew him. Allah's blessing, with Zoug-Zoug's! What fame you've got now dompteuse, and the sweet scandal!
Drink your vermouth, take that bundle of cigarettes, and hunt Zoug-Zoug else where. If you find him, let me know. Good-bye." Meyerbeer went out furious. The treatment had been too heroic. "I'll give a sweet savour to your family name," he said with an oath, as he shook his fist at the closed door. Ian Belward sat back and looked at the ceiling reflectively. "H'm!" he said at last.
He opened Le Petit Journal, Coil Blas, Galignani, and the New York Tom-Tom, one by one. Yes, it was there, with pictures of himself and Andree. A screaming sensation. Extracts, too, from the English papers by telegram. He read them all unflinchingly. There was one paragraph which he did not understand: There was a previous friend of the lady, unknown to the public, called Zoug-Zoug.
Then the painter brought his head to a natural position slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: "Who is what?" "Who's Zoug-Zoug?" "That is your one solitary question, is it?" "That's it." "Very well. Now, I'll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the woman for you've got a woman in it, that's certain?" "Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?" "Yes."
"What the devil does this mean? Not Andree, surely not Andree! Yet I wasn't called Zoug-Zoug before that. It was Bagshot's insolent inspiration at Auvergne. Well, well!" He got up, drew over a portfolio of sketches, took out two or three, put them in a row against a divan, sat down, and looked at them half quizzically.
Meyerbeer, in a far corner, was still on the trail of his sensation. He thought that he might get an article out of it with the help of Count Ploare and Zoug-Zoug. Who was Zoug-Zoug? He exulted in her picturesqueness, and he determined to lie in wait. He thought it a pity that Comte Ploare was not an Englishman or an American; but it couldn't be helped.
Then the painter brought his head to a natural position slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said: "Who is what?" "Who's Zoug-Zoug?" "That is your one solitary question, is it?" "That's it." "Very well. Now, I'll be scavenger. What is the story? Who is the woman for you've got a woman in it, that's certain?" "Will you tell me, then, whether you know Zoug-Zoug?" "Yes."
The journalist had found out Zoug-Zoug at last, and Ian Belward had talked with the manager of the menagerie. Andree shuddered and put the letter in her pocket. Now she understood why she had shrunk from Gaston that first night and those first days in Audierne: that strange sixth sense, divination vague, helpless prescience. And here, suddenly, she shrank again, but with a different thought.
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