From the trees came a sound that was not the voice of the birds. Far away it seemed now, and now near. It was the spinning-song of Oberthal, that tune, thin as a thread of flax, rising, falling, poignant as Fate, and filled with the story of man—his swaddling-clothes, his marriage-bed, and his shroud.
There, amidst the trees, coming from nowhere, diffused by the echoes of the wood—for a wood is a living echo—heard just then, the song of Oberthal seemed the voice of Fate herself.
I knew quite well what had happened. Franzius had returned. Madame Ancelot had told him that I was in the wood. Wishing, no doubt, to find me, he had sent the tune to look for me—the old tune that he knew I liked so well.
It was then only that my past relationship with Eloise rose before me.
I had said nothing about it; I had even refrained from mentioning her name. I had done this from no ulterior motive. I was not ashamed that the woman I loved should know about Eloise. Had I not brought her to the Pavilion when it was quite possible that Eloise might have returned? Up to this my mind had been so filled with new things, so filled with happiness and extraordinary love, that all things earthly were for me not.
"It is a friend of mine, I think," said I. "A violinist. He stays at the Pavilion. And now I want to tell you something."
"Yes?"
It had seemed so easy, yet now it seemed very difficult.
"I told you I had never cared for another woman."
"Yes."