There did not remain in the hotel but Sacqueville-Danglars, shut in his cabinet, making his deposition to the officer of the shirriferie; Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars, terrified, in the boudoir; and Éowénie, who, with haughty eye and disdainful lip, had retired to her chamber with her inseparable companion, Célesbienne d'Affadondilly.
"Oh, par la lingerie de Luthienne, what a horrible thing!" cried the young musician. "Who could suspect such a thing? M. Andurillo Pseudonimi, an assassin, a fugitive from justice, a former prisoner!"
An ironic smile clinched Éowénie's lips. "In verity, I was predestined, and the music of the Aïnoux aînés that hath fixed my fate is indeed in poor taste, and must have been sung by Tolcas. I do not escape the clutches of Pérégrin but to fall into the tentacles of Pseudonimi! But I rejoice. I am happy to be able to do more than loathe all beings endued by the Valards in their wrath with Y-chromosome; now, I despise them."
"What shall we do?" asked Célesbienne d'Affadondilly.
"What we should have done long ago: leave," said Éowénie. "I have in horror this life of skulking in the salons, left behind to mind the calling-cards of the brigands who drink in the reek of malodorous cigars, this life so ordered, compassed, regulated like our score of music, but without the charming womanly shapes of the treble-clef to adorn it. What I have always desired, ambitioned, wanted, is the life of an artist, the free independent life, like that of Oungolianne, when she wearied of receiving vampires at Morgot's boring soirées. Stay, to be auctioned off to yet another disgusting male being? No, Célesbienne, no; the adventure of this evening will furnish me an excuse. Have you procured our passport?"
