’ At this, the fellow Valade burst into unwise speech. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. No mercenary consideration influences me. Such was his fury, that if he had not been restrained by the presence of the two turnkeys, he might perhaps have anticipated the course of justice, by laying violent hands upon his victim.
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