“How beautiful she must have been!” cried the young wife.
“Oh!—--”
“Yes,” said M. F., “I remember even now how dazzled I was, at five years old, on seeing my mother dressed for a ball.”
Gradually I subdued my feelings, and was able to talk sensibly to my visitors. Madame C. F. was a Dutch creole of Java, and knew Rajah Brooke of Sarawak.
How much I should have had to ask her had I been in my usual state of mind.
I saw them pleasantly often during their stay in Paris, and we talked of her. As we grew more friendly, the bride scolded me for writing as I had done.
“You frighten her,” she said. “Remember she hardly knows you. You must learn to be calm, then your visits to Geneva will be delightful, and we shall be so happy to see you. You will come, will you not?”
“Can you doubt it, if Madame F. gives me permission?”
Schooling myself rigidly, I gave them no letter for their mother when they left; but, as my Trojans was to be given, I sent her a copy of the poem, begging her to read the page I had marked with some dead leaves at half-past two on the 18th December, the time at which that passage would be played in Paris. Madame C. F. was to be back in Paris then, and hoped to be present at this concert, which was making some stir in the musical world.
A fortnight went by and she did not come, neither did I have a letter. I was almost at the end of my patience, although I would not write, when, on the 17th, Madame C. F. returned bringing me the following letter: