The curtains had been drawn aside, and I could see through the window-panes the interior of the apartment.
But what was my astonishment, good God, when I recognised Hélène!
I was stupefied, for I believed her to be still in England with her mother.
For an instant I turned away my eyes, for I was breathless with emotion.
My heart beat so violently that its pulsations were painful; but, prompted by burning curiosity, I looked again.
Oh, how beautiful Hélène had become! She was no longer frail and stooping, as formerly; her shoulders were broader, her form more developed and rounder, but her waist as small and as supple as ever. Then her fresh and rosy cheeks, her calm, fair forehead, her whole person, revealed an appearance of quietude and serenity which, I admit, gave me a terrible shock; for I knew that she had altogether forgotten me,—since she seemed no longer to suffer.
She wore a black silk dress; her beautiful blonde hair fell in thick curls on her forehead and neck, and, as always, she wore the daintiest slippers.
As my eye became gradually used to looking through such a small space, the horizon which I could take in became larger, and how can I tell what I felt, when through an open door I saw a child's cradle!
Hélène, seated in an armchair, her pretty feet crossed one over the other, was reading by the light of a lamp, whose green silk shade reminded me of our salon at Serval. From time to time she placed her book on her knees, and, with a movement that thrilled me with sweet and bitter souvenirs, she rested her round white chin on the back of her left hand, whose little finger was raised along the side of her cheek, where the polished finger-nail shone like a pink shell.
From time to time Hélène gave an uneasy glance towards the clock, and then again towards the fire, which burned cheerfully on the hearth; sometimes, too, she listened attentively to any sound that might come from the cradle, then she would go on with her reading; while reading she would mechanically pull at one of the elastic, silky rings of her long, fair hair and bring it up to her lips; which was another one of her childish tricks, for which her mother had often taken her to task, and which, alas! was another sad souvenir of my happy days at Serval. The interior of this little parlour was of the greatest simplicity; beside Hélène, on a table which was covered with a pretty cloth, I recognised a Saxony vase, which had belonged to her mother. It contained one of her favourite flowers. The walls of the room were papered with red, and covered with a quantity of water-colours and sketches in simple oak frames. Besides these there were many plaster casts from well-selected antique models, and two or three beautiful proofs of Rembrandt's etchings. These were all the ornaments of the apartment.