He came back again almost directly, bearing the book as a sacristan might bear a black-letter Bible.
“Ecco, Signora.”
With a superb gesture he placed it before her.
“The coffee, the fine. Attendez, Signora, pour un petit momento.”
He stood to see the effect of his French upon her. She forced into her face a look of pious admiration, and he at once departed. Hermione opened the book rather furtively. She had the unpleasant sensation of doing a surreptitious action, and she was an almost abnormally straightforward woman by nature. The book was large, and contained an immense number of inscriptions and signatures in handwritings that varied as strangely as do the characters of men. She turned the leaves hastily. Where had Emile written? Not at the end of the book. She remembered that his signature had been followed by others, although she had not seen, or tried to see, what he had written. Perhaps his name was near Tolstoy’s. They had read together Tolstoy’s Vedi Napoli e poi Mori.
But where was Tolstoy’s name?
A waiter came with the coffee and the brandy. She thanked him quickly, sipped the coffee without tasting it, and continued the search.
The voice of the blind man died away. The guitars ceased.
She started. She was afraid the musicians would come down and gather round her. Why had she not told the Padrone she wished to be quite alone? She heard the shuffle of feet. They were coming. Feverishly she turned the pages. Ah! here is was! She bent down over the page.
“La conscience, c’est la quantite de science innee que nous avons
en nous. EMILE ARTOIS.
“Nuit d’orage. Juin.”