“Well, well,” sighed the big sculptor, “I give her up. And already I could see the crowds admiring my group as it stood under the dome of the Grand Palace; already I could hear their plaudits ringing in my ears; already....”
Once more he sighed deeply, and went away.
May 15th.
It is so hot to-day that I think Summer must have taken the wrong cue. On the Boul’ Mich’ the marronniers sicken in the stale air composed equally of asphalt, petrol and escaping gas. Assyrian bearded students and Aubrey Beardsley cocottes are sitting over opaline glasses in front of the stifling cafés, and the dolphins in the fountains of the Observatory spout enthusiastically. Now is the time to loll on a shaded bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, and refrain from doing anything strenuous.
So I sit there dreaming, and note in a careless way that I am becoming conspicuously shabby. Because the necessary franc for the barber cannot well be spared, I have allowed my hair to accumulate æsthetically. Anastasia loves it like that—says it makes me look like the great man of letters I am; and with a piece of silk she has made me a Lavallière tie. More than ever I feel like a character in a French farce.
My boots, I particularly note, need heeling. Every morning I conscientiously brush them before I go out, but invariably I am called back.
“Show me your feet.”
I bow before this domestic tyrant.
“Oh, what a dirty boy it is. What shame for me to have husbands go out like that.”
“But look!” I protest; “they’re clean. They shine like a mirror. Why, you can see your face in them—if you look hard enough.”