LXXX.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
"Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek
Doth blend the tints of cream and rose.
And lends the pearls which deck her hat
And rubies too from off her gown,
To be your own fit ornament."
E. DARIO (Strophes).
Before the Hôtel des Messageries, a young girl, modestly dressed, was waiting for the diligence, with an old band-box in her hand.
Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her with surprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He had seen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair and those blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost their freshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought her prettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, the mountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in the market-place of Althausen.
By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow?
Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-winded horses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with the red face, and the thin and hungry little children?
He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fair girl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow.
—Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor.