Newspapers, absolutely ignorant of all learning, spoke in praise of that “charming passage” which had concluded my discourse. “It was a revelation,” they said, “and M. Pigeonneau had prepared a most agreeable surprise for us.” I do not know why I refer to such trifles, because, usually I am quite indifferent as to what they say about me in the newspapers.
I had been already closeted in my study for three days when a ring at the door-bell startled me. There was something imperious, fantastic, and strange in the motion communicated to the bell-rope which disturbed me, and it was with real anxiety that I went myself to open the door. And whom did I find on the landing? The young American recently so absorbed at the reading of my treatise. It was Miss Morgan in person.
“Monsieur Pigeonneau?”
“Yes.”
“I recognised you at once, though you are not wearing your beautiful coat with the embroidery of green palm-leaves. But, please don’t put it on for my sake. I like you much better in your dressing-gown.”
I led her into my study. She looked curiously at the papyri, the prints, and odds and ends of all kinds which covered the walls to the ceiling, and then she looked silently for some time at the goddess Pasht who stood on my writing-table. Finally she said:
“She is charming.”
“Do you refer to this little monument, Madam? As a matter of fact, it is distinguished by an exceptional inscription of a sufficiently curious nature. But may I ask what has procured for me the honour of your visit?”
“O,” she cried, “I don’t care a fig for its remarkable inscriptions. There never was a more exquisitely delicate cat-face. Of course you believe that she is a real goddess, don’t you, Monsieur Pigeonneau?”
I protested against so unworthy a suspicion.