He indulged in no recriminations. Clorinde had sucked some of his strength away from him to use it for his own overthrow; she had applied to his own ruin the lessons which she had learnt from him during those pleasant afternoons in the Rue Marbeuf. He was now drinking the cup of ingratitude and treason; but, man of experience that he was, he accepted it with all its bitterness. The only point which troubled him was whether he even now fully understood Clorinde. He thought of his former inquiries about her, his futile efforts to discover the secret workings of that majestic but erratic machine. Decidedly, he said to himself, the folly of man was great indeed. Clorinde had twice left him for a moment to serve other customers; and, now that she had had full satisfaction, she again resumed her stately perambulations amidst the tables, affecting to take no further notice of him. He watched her, however, and saw her approach a gentleman with an immense beard, a foreigner, whose lavish prodigality was at that time quite exciting Paris. He was just finishing a glass of Malaga. 'How much, madame?' he inquired, rising from his seat. 'Five francs, monsieur. Everything is five francs a glass.' He paid the money. 'And a kiss, how much is that?' he continued, in the same tone with his foreign accent. 'A hundred thousand francs,' answered Clorinde, without the slightest hesitation. The foreigner sat down again, and wrote a few words on a page which he tore from a memorandum-book. Then he deposited a smacking kiss on Clorinde's cheek, paid for it, and went off in the most phlegmatic manner possible. All the people in the café smiled, much amused by the incident. 'It's only a question of paying the price,' murmured Clorinde, going up towards Rougon again. He detected a fresh allusion in this remark. To him she had said 'Never!' And then, this man of chaste life, who had borne so bravely the stunning blow of his dismissal, began to feel keenly pained by the collar which Clorinde so impudently paraded. She stooped and swayed her neck as though to provoke him still further. The pearl tinkled in the golden bell; the chain hung low, still warm from the hands of the giver; and on the velvet flashed the diamond letters by which Rougon could easily read the secret known to everybody. And never before had he so keenly felt the bite of unconfessed jealousy, the burning envy which he had sometimes experienced in the presence of the all-powerful Emperor. The young woman probably guessed the torment he was suffering, and it pleased her to inflict yet another pang upon him. She called his attention to Madame de Combelot, who was still selling her roses in the flower-stall. 'Ah! that poor Madame de Combelot!' she said, with a malicious laugh; 'she is still waiting!' However, Rougon finished his sugared water. He felt as though he were choking. 'How much?' he stammered, taking out his purse. 'Five francs.'