They had reached the attic, and Adolph lit a lamp.
“We'll talk of it to-morrow, my infant, now I must dress—see, here is a letter for you.”
He handed Stefan a tinted envelope, and began leisurely to don his conventional black. Holding the note under the lamp, Stefan saw with a start that it was from Felicity, and had been left by hand. Excited, he tore it open. It was written in ordinary ink, upon pale pink paper, agreeably scented.
“My dear friend,” he read in French, “I am in Paris, and
chancing to remember your old address—(“I swear I never told
her the number,” he thought)—send this in search of you.
How pleasant it would be to see you, and to have a little converse
in the sweet French tongue. You did not know that it
was my own, did you? But yes, I have French-Creole blood.
One is happy here among one's own kind. This evening I shall
be alone. Felicity.”
So, she was a Creole—of the race of Josephine! His pulses beat. Cramming the note into his pocket he whirled excitedly upon his friend.
“Adolph,” he cried, “I'm going out—where are my clothes?” and began hastily to rummage for his Gladstone amidst a pile of their joint belongings. Throwing it open, he dragged out his dress suit—folded still as Mary had packed it—and strewed a table with collars, ties, shirts, and other accessories.
“Hot water, Adolph! Throw some sticks into the stove—I must shave,” he called, and Adolph, amazed at this sudden transformation, hastily obeyed.
“Where do you go?” he asked, as he filled the kettle.
“I'm going to see a very attractive young woman,” Stefan grinned. “Wow, what a mercy I brought some decent clothes, eh?” He was already stripped, and shaking out a handful of silk socks. Something clicked to the floor, but he did not notice it. The dressing proceeded in a whirl, Adolph much impressed by the splendors of his friend's toilet. A fine shirt of tucked linen, immaculate pumps, links of dull gold—his comrade in Bohemia had completely vanished.
“O là, là!” cried he, beaming, “now I see it is true about all your riches!”