And so with song and story the hands of the tall clock slipped by the hours. It was midnight before we knew it. Again Tanrade played—this time it was the second act of his new operetta. When he had finished he took his seat beside the woman in the long chair.
"Bravo!" she murmured in his ear. Then she listened as he talked to her earnestly.
"Good!" I overheard her say to him with conviction, her eyes gleaming. "And you are satisfied at last with the second act?"
"Yes, after a month's struggle with it."
"Ah, I am so glad—so glad!" she sighed, and pressed his hand.
"I must go to Paris next week for the rehearsals."
"For long?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "For weeks, perhaps. Come," he said, "let us go out to the wall—the moon is up. The marsh is so beautiful in the moonlight."
She rose, slipped on the dove-gray cloak he brought her, and together they disappeared in the courtyard. The marquise raised her eyes to mine and smiled.
"Bonne promenade, dear children," she called after them, but they did not hear.