Où sont les neiges d'antan?
The chords of the old music-box seemed to sigh and tremble with remembrance. Where were they, all the beautiful dead women, all the fair imperious queens, all the loved, and all the lovers? Where were they? The snow had fallen through so many white winters since that song was sung—so many! so many!
The last words thrilled sadly and sweetly through the silence.
He rose and bowed very low.
'I have trespassed too long on your patience, madame; I have the honour to wish you goodnight.'
Wanda von Szalras was not a woman quickly touched to any emotion, but her eyelids were heavy with a mist of unshed tears, as she raised them and looked up from the fire, letting drop on her lap the screen of plumes.
'If there be a Lorelei in our lake, no wonder from envy she tried to drown you,' she said, with a smile that cost her a little effort. Good-night, sir; should you wish to leave us in the morning, Hubert will see you reach S. Johann safely and as quickly as can be.'
'Your goodness overwhelms me,' he murmured. 'I can never hope to show my gratitude——'
'There is nothing to be grateful for,' she said quickly. 'And if there were, you would have repaid it: you have made a spinet, silent for centuries, speak, and speak to our hearts. Good-night, sir; may you have good rest and a fair journey!'
When he had bowed himself out, and the tapestry of the door had closed behind him, she rose and looked at a clock.