The wind whistled ominously; a weird, senseless sound that smote the ear with madness. The white of the snow and the dull gray of the rocks were totally unrelieved by any touch of green or play of water; a spot lonely as the human soul and terrifying as death.
Harry had gone to examine the hoofs of his mule, which had limped slightly during the afternoon; Le Mire and I sat side by side near the fire, gazing at the play of the flames. For some minutes we had been silent.
"In Paris, perhaps—" she began suddenly, then stopped short and became again silent.
But I was fast dropping into melancholy and wanted to hear her voice, and I said:
"Well? In Paris—"
She looked at me, her eyes curiously somber, but did not speak. I insisted:
"You were saying, Desiree, in Paris—"
She made a quick movement and laughed unpleasantly.
"Yes, my friend—but it is useless. I was thinking of you. 'Ah! A card! Mr. Paul Lamar. Show him in, Julie. But no, let him wait—I am not at home.' That, my friend, would be in Paris."
I stared at her.