It was here, after a few minutes, that
Jeanne found him.
'Fool! Idiot! Imbecile!' said Jeanne.
Paul stared at her without speaking.
'To throw rolls at the _patron_. Imbecile!'
'He--' began Paul.
'Bah! And what if he did? Must you then attack him like a mad dog? What
is it to you?'
Paul was conscious of a dull longing for sympathy, a monstrous sense
of oppression. Everything was going wrong. Surely Jeanne must be
touched by his heroism? But no. She was scolding furiously. Suppose
Andromeda had turned and scolded Perseus after he had slain the
sea-monster! Paul mopped his forehead with his napkin. The bottom had
dropped out of his world.
'Jeanne!'
'Bah! Do not talk to me, idiot of a little man. Almost you lost me my
place also. The _patron_ was in two minds. But I coaxed him. A
fine thing that would have been, to lose my good place through your
foolishness. To throw rolls. My goodness!'
She swept back into the room again, leaving Paul still standing by the
kitchen door. Something seemed to have snapped inside him. How long he
stood there he did not know, but presently from the dining-room came
calls of 'Waiter!' and automatically he fell once more into his work,
as an actor takes up his part. A stranger would have noticed nothing
remarkable in him. He bustled to and fro with undiminished energy.
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