There was dead silence. A perceptible start of emotion found expression in an interjectionary arch of brow, a sigh blown on the puff of a cigarette, and an uneasy shifting of attitudes. A baby girl! What a slight thing in the hurry of life, what a simple thing in its crowding perplexities! The tragic end of men and women whom the years have worn and fretted; the sudden death of happy youth in the midst of its bright promises; the peaceful sadness that accompanies the departure of the old, who have honourably lived their lives and accomplished all natural laws:—but the closed eyes of a little baby girl! What is it more than tumble of a new-born bird from its nest, leaving no empty space? Upon a boy paternal pride might have feasted, and the sting might remain that new avenues to fame and fortune were closed by his sharp withdrawal.
Yet despite the insignificance of the loss, none of the faces round Rameau wore a look of indifference or surprise. For a moment each man was serious, touched, and uninclined for wit at poor Krowtosky’s expense. Upon dropped lids I seemed to see the big grotesque head, so full of honesty and strife, bent in grief over an empty cradle; and I was wrung by a smart of anger when Gaston lightly asked, ‘Is there then a legitimate Madame Krowtosky?’
‘All that is most legitimate,’ replied Rameau gravely.
‘You have followed the story?’
‘Since I played the part of confidential friend—why, I know as little as you.’
‘And the lady?’
‘Ah, the lady! Her I only know on report that cannot exactly be described as impartial.’
‘Is it a story worth telling?’
‘In its way it is curious enough, especially unfolded in the illumination of Krowtosky’s jumble of crude philosophy and speculative theories, and, above all, told in his queer French. He has honoured me with a correspondence in the form of a journal. It is extremely interesting, and I have preserved it. Some day I will publish it,—when the philosopher is dead, of course.’
‘Then begin now, my dear Professor,’ I urged. ‘Try its effect en petit comité.’ We read assent in the Professor’s way of crossing his legs, while he drew one hand slowly round the back of his head. When he had carefully polished and adjusted his glasses, each of us chose a commodious attitude, and looked expectantly at him. After a pause, Rameau began in his soft conversational tone, subdued like the indefinite shade of the lamp-screen that cast its glimmer over heads and profiles, showing vaguely upon a background of dull tapestries.