“Oh, come along if you like; I am going to my framemaker’s.”
“A picture?”
“Something of the kind.”
“And that’s all the mystery! Yesterday it was a sketch I mustn’t look at; to-day it’s a picture. It is not nice of you, Sylvestre; no, decidedly it is not nice.”
He gave me a look of friendly compassion.
“Poor little chap!” said he.
Then, in his usual clear, strong voice:
“I am in a great hurry; but come if you like. I would rather it were four days later; but as it is, never mind; it is never too soon to be happy.”
When Lampron chooses to hold his tongue it is useless to ask him questions. I gave myself up to meditating on the words, “It is never too soon to be happy.”
We went down the boulevard, past the beer-houses. There is distinction in my friend’s walk; he is not to be confused with the crowd through which he passes. You can tell, from the simple seriousness of the man, his indifference to the noise and petty incidents of the streets, that he is a stout and noble soul. Among the passers-by he is a somebody. I heard from a group of students seated before a cafe the following words, which Sylvestre did not seem to notice: