She took a small bottle from the table, and handed it to me. I inhaled it deeply, so as to be doing something, and to gain time to prepare some other phrase. I did not succeed in dissipating my confusion, or in recovering my assurance. I felt that all intimacy between us was at an end. She seemed to me to be another woman. And yet the air from "Orphée" still surged through my soul, still disturbed me:
"Que ferai-je sans Eurydice?"
In that warm and golden light, amidst that delightful perfume, among these objects impressed with feminine grace, the echo of the ancient melody seemed to put the palpitation of a secret life, to shed a shadow of some strange mystery.
"The air that you sang just now is very beautiful," I said, obeying an impulse that came from my uneasiness.
"Yes, very beautiful," she cried.
A question rose to my lips: "Why are you singing?" but I repressed it and began to seek in myself the reasons of the curiosity which tormented me.
There was an interval of silence. She ran her finger-nail across the teeth of the comb, producing a light, grating noise. This grating is a circumstance that I recall with perfect clearness.
"You were dressing to go out. Go on," I said.
"I have only to put on my jacket and hat. What time is it?"
"A quarter to eleven."