I laughed to myself with pleasure as I watched him watching the dolls, all his simple soul absorbed in the sight, his violin under his arm, and a hand in the pocket of his shabby coat, feeling for a coin to pay for the entertainment.
He did not know me in the least. How could he connect the child in its nightgown, looking down from the gallery of the castle, with the young dandy who was raising his hat to him in the Boulevard St. Michel?
"Excuse me, monsieur," said I, "but I believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, though we have never spoken one word to each other."
He smiled dubiously and plucked nervously at a violin-string, evidently ransacking memories of beer-gardens and café-chantants to find my face.
"You will not remember me," I went on, "but I remember you. Over nine years ago, it was, in Germany, in the Schloss Lichtenberg. You remember the Hunting-Song, the horn——"
"Ach Gott!" he cried, slapping himself on the forehead. "The child in the gallery, the one in white——"
"Yes," said I; "that was me. You see, I don't forget my friends."
He was too astounded to say anything for a moment; the wretched difference our clothes made in us confused his simple mind.
Then he wiped his hand with fingers outspread across his broad face. It was just as if he had wiped away his amazement like a veil, exposing the beneficent smile that was his true expression.