“In dreams she grows not older
The lands of Dream among,
Though all the world wax colder,
Though all the songs be sung;
In dreams doth he behold her
Still fair and kind and young.”
Taciturn Refrogné seemed no more surprised to see him than if he had gone out but an hour since: the trade of the Parisian concierge slays surprise early.
“A letter for monsieur,” said Refrogné.
Cartaret took it from the grimy paw that was extended out of the concierge’s cave. He went on up the stairs.
The door of the magic Room Opposite—in all probability commonplace enough now—stood slightly ajar, and Cartaret felt a new pang as he glanced at it. He passed on to his own room.
His own room! It was precisely as he had seen it last—a little dustier, and far more dreary, but with no other change. The table at which she had leaned, the easel on which he had painted those portraits of her, were just as when he had left them. He went to the window at which he used to store the provisions that Chitta looted, and there he opened the envelope Refrogné had given him. It contained only one piece of paper: A Spanish draft on the Comptoir Général for a hundred and twenty francs, and on the back, in a labored English script, was written:
“For repayment of the sum advanced to my servant, Chitta Grekekora.
“Ricardo B. F. R. Ethenard-Eskurola (d’Alegria).”
A limb of wisteria had climbed to the window and hung a cluster of its purple flowers on the sill. Below, Refrogné’s lilacs were in full bloom, and the laughter of Refrogné’s children rose from among them as piercing sweet as the scent of the flowers. Cartaret took a match from his pocket, struck it and set the bit of paper aflame. He held it until the flame burnt his fingers, crushed it in his palm and watched the ashes circle slowly downward toward the lilac-trees.
The sun had set and, as Cartaret walked aimlessly toward the front windows, the long shadows of the twilight were deepening from wall to wall. Summer was in all the air.