“For madame with my compliments,” he shouted; “Vive les voyageurs!”
ENVOI
From my window this morning the world goes by. The vieux marcheur and the young cocotte, a patisserie boy with a truffled duck, and the smart coupé of Elise.
Bright shines the sun, the asphalt steams, and the gutters flash in ripples. The narrow street is blocked to the doors of expensive boutiques, whose windows hold treasures of jewels, of lace and a million things from the frailest peignoir to the latest chapeau, at ridiculous prices that open the eyes of the vieux monsieur, and half close those of Cora—in a satisfied smile.
“Come, come, mon cher! how about my chapeau?”
“Si tu veux,” he consents, and the bargain is made.
At the bend of the byway an acre of roses in white paper jackets flame in the sun, and gay boutonnières of fragrant posies are tucked in lapels of passing gallants.
A hearse crawls by—poor Ninette! you have gone. Can you still hear, I wonder, the crash of the band, the swinging waltz in the whirling room? It is François, dear, who has sent you the roses—the drooping roses that cover your tomb.
It is noon and the bells are ringing.