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First of all the axe went flying round and round over the top of Alphonse's head, with an angry whirl and such extraordinary swiftness that it looked like a continuous band of steel, ever getting nearer and yet nearer to that unhappy individual's skull, till at last it grazed it as it flew.
They remained thus for a second or two, and there glided over Alphonse's features that expression of imploring helplessness which Charles knew so well from the old school days, when Alphonse came bounding in at the last moment and wanted his composition written. "Have you done with the Journal Amusant?" asked Charles, with a thick utterance. "Yes; pray take it," answered Alphonse, hurriedly.
What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at last led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he not hate his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that Alphonse was ruined he had shared with him honestly, and never harmed him. Then his thoughts turned to Alphonse.
They glanced towards the corner, buttoned their coats, and plunged out again into the fog. The half-darkened café was soon empty; only some of Alphonse's nearest friends stood in a group and whispered. The doctor was talking with the proprietor, who had now appeared on the scene. The waiters stole to and fro making great circuits to avoid the dark corner.
Suddenly, just as I was nerving myself for the signal, having already selected my man on whom I meant to open fire a great fellow sprawling on the ground within three feet of little Flossie Alphonse's teeth began to chatter again like the hoofs of a galloping giraffe, making a great noise in the silence. The rag had dropped out in the agitation of his mind.
Just then, too, another, a very large one, got hold of Alphonse's leg, and declined to part with it, and, as may be imagined, a considerable scene ensued.
When Charles entered he saluted shortly and took a seat in the corner beside the fireplace. Alphonse's eyes had indeed become restless. He looked towards the door every time any one came in; and when Charles appeared, a spasm passed over his face and he missed his stroke. "Monsieur Alphonse is not in the vein to-day," said an onlooker. Soon after a strange gentleman came in.
Then we heard the sound of M. Alphonse's cart-wheels, and I got up to go. He stood aside a little to let me pass him, and I left him alone in the shrubbery. That evening I took advantage of the unusually good humour of Adèle to ask her if she knew any of the ploughmen at the Lost Ford.
"I thank you," answered Charles, "both on my own and on my friend's behalf." "Monsieur Alphonse's salary remains unaltered," replied the chief, and went on writing. Charles never forgot that morning. It was the first time he had been preferred or distinguished before his friend.
What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at last led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he not hate his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that Alphonse was ruined he had shared with him honestly, and never harmed him. Then his thoughts tamed to Alphonse.
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