The lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible gesture of impatience.
“Pardon. Certainly I am not discreet in asking. Monsieur will forgive me? It is surely not becoming that I should inquire where he lodges.”
“Madame, do not say so. I live in the———
“No, no, no; do not tell me. Now I see that I erred. But I cannot lose the interest I feel in this house and all that is in it. Once it was my home. Often I come here but to dream of those happy days again. Will you let that be my excuse?”
“Let me tell you, then, for you need no excuse,” stammered the poet. “I live in the top floor—the small room where the stairs turn.”
“In the front room?” asked the lady, turning her head sidewise.
“The rear, madame.”
The lady sighed, as if with relief.
“I will detain you no longer, then, monsieur,” she said, employing the round and artless eye. “Take good care of my house. Alas! only the memories of it are mine now. Adieu, and accept my thanks for your courtesy.”
She was gone, leaving but a smile and a trace of sweet perfume. David climbed the stairs as one in slumber. But he awoke from it, and the smile and the perfume lingered with him and never afterward did either seem quite to leave him. This lady of whom he knew nothing drove him to lyrics of eyes, chansons of swiftly conceived love, odes to curling hair, and sonnets to slippers on slender feet.
