“Daughter of the steward of the Count of C——, whom I served until his death.”
“Where did he live?”
When I heard the name of the street, I could not repress an exclamation of surprise.
A line of light, that line of light which is as swift as thought, running brightly through the obscurity and confusion of the mind, uniting experiences far removed from one another and marvellously binding them together, connected my vague memories and I understood—or believed that I understood—all.
This date, which has no name, I have not written anywhere,—nay; I bear it written there where only I may read it and whence it shall never be erased.
Occasionally in recalling these events, even now in relating them here, I have asked myself:—
Some day in the mysterious hour of twilight, when the breath of the spring zephyr, warm and laden with perfumes, penetrates even into the recesses of the most retired dwellings, bearing there an airy touch of memory, of the world, must not a woman, alone, lost in the dim shades of a Gothic cloister, her cheek upon her hand, her elbow resting on the embrasure of an ogive window, have exhaled a sigh as the recollection of these dates crossed her imagination?
Who knows?
Oh! if she sighed, where might that sigh be?