We had come out upon the bridge of Austerlitz, and paused, involuntarily. Below us was the busy river, with its bridges, its boats, its crowds along the quays; far ahead, dominating the scene, the towers of the cathedral; and the warm sun of June was over it all. We leaned upon the balustrade and gazed at all this beauty.
"And now the mystery is cleared away," she said, "and the prince and the princess are wedded, just as they were in the fairy tales of our childhood. It's a good ending."
"For all stories," I added.
She turned and looked at me.
"There are other stories," I explained. "Theirs is not the only one."
"No?"
The spirit of Paris—or perhaps the June sunshine—was in my veins, running riot, clamorous, not to be repressed.
"Certainly not. There might be another, for instance, with you and me as the principals."
I dared not look at her; I could only stare ahead of me down at the water.
She made no sign; the moments passed.