“I do, Monsieur.”
My words seemed to him the height of presumption.
“Come, Jeanne,” he said, “let us leave this gentleman to his youthful illusions. They will soon be shattered—very soon.”
He gave me an ironical smile and made for the door.
At this moment Jeanne dropped her sunshade. I picked it up for her.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” she said.
Of course these words were no more than ordinarily polite. She would have said the same to the first comer. Nothing in her attitude or her look displayed any emotion which might put a value on this common form of speech. But it was her voice, that music I so often dream of. Had it spoken insults, I should have found it sweet. It inspired me with the sudden resolution of detaining this fugitive apparition, of resting, if possible, another hour near her to whose side an unexpected stroke of fortune had brought me.
M. Charnot had already left the room; his rotund shadow rested on the wall of the passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand.
“Monsieur,” said I, “I am sorry that you are obliged to return already to Milan. I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and it would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due only to the stupidity of the servants.”
He stopped; the stroke had told.