Instead of opening the door he retraced his steps. But I said to him, pointing to the door, which was beautifully carved in a Gothic design,—Flemish work no doubt, for it was as delicate as lace,—"Where does that door lead to, monsieur? Can one not see that apartment?"
"You can see it, monsieur, if—you absolutely desire to do so," said the curé, with a sort of grieved impatience.
"I certainly wish to see it, monsieur," I replied; for the more closely I examined the house the more interested I was becoming. All that I had so far seen had revealed to me not only the greatest elegance and refinement, but noble habits of art and of poetry. I felt sure that no vulgar mind could have so selected and so ornamented his residence.
"Be so kind then, monsieur, as to enter without me," said the abbé, as he handed me a key. "It was her—" Then with an effort controlling himself, he said, "It is the morning-room, the living-room."
I entered.
The room, which had evidently been ordinarily used by a woman, had remained in absolutely the same condition in which its occupant had left it. On a tapestry frame was a half finished piece of embroidery; further on stood a harp before a music-stand still laden with music; on a table were a vinaigrette and an unfolded handkerchief; an open book was lying on the workbasket. I looked at it: it was the second volume of "Obermann."
Profoundly touched by the thought that some frightful and sudden misfortune should have ended an existence which seemed to have been so poetic and so happily occupied, I continued to observe with the most minute attention everything that surrounded me. I saw a tolerably large bookcase filled with the works of the best poets of France, Germany, and Italy. Near by stood an easel, on which was the most delicious sketch of a child's head that one could imagine,—the adorable little face of a child of about three or four years old, with blue eyes and long brown hair.
I know not why it should have occurred to me that only a mother could have made such a picture, and that she only could have thus painted her own child.
All these discoveries, while they saddened me exceedingly, only excited more and more my interest and my curiosity. I therefore determined to use every possible means of finding out the secret so obstinately kept by the curé.
This portrait of a child, of which I speak, was placed near one of the windows that lighted the room. Without thinking of what I was doing, I drew the curtain to one side. What did I behold? At about a league's distance, certainly not more, there was the sea, the Mediterranean! which sparkled like a great azure mirror, and reflected the glowing sunshine,—the sea that one beheld between the slopes of the two hills.