But under cloudless skies one is prone to forget the lessons of misfortune. It took some time—but the Sunday came when, once again, it seemed 'almost wrong' to waste summer hours in the Temple Anglican, when one felt so good under the beautiful trees in the Bois de la Cambre. And then there was pocket-money in hand, and a lunch of cakes, and not halfpenny pistolets, could be obtained.
'I suppose you don't think it will rain?' I suggested.
'Rain!' My brother said with scorn. 'Look at that sky! How could it rain?'
It managed to do it. True, it was only a brief shower: but the water came down in sheets. In despair I took off the chapeau d'uniforme, and my brother, who wore an Inverness cape, sheltered it under the flap. I stood to hold the cape at a right angle, so that the precious object might not be crushed, and we were watching it under this sheltering wing, and my brother was assuring me it was all right when,—as I stood there bareheaded and rain-beaten, beneath a tree by the side of the broad path near the entrance to the wood—a short, stoutish man, buttoned up to the chin in his greatcoat, and holding his umbrella tightly, walked by us at a great pace, without (so at least it seemed) looking at us at all. And that man was M. Heger. We gasped, and looked at each other.
'He didn't see us,' said my brother cheerily. 'What a bit of luck!'
'You may be quite sure he did see us,' I answered. 'Well, I wonder what will happen now?'
With this new anxiety on our hands, even the precious chapeau d'uniforme became a secondary consideration. But the shower having passed, we examined it carefully. There was no disaster this time. The rosebuds were still rosebuds and the blonde still blonde. It is true that a splash had fallen on the white chip crown, but my brother was always ready with comfort.
'When it's dry,' he told me, 'you'll easily get that off with a bit of bread.'