“Great Scott! I haven’t heard a word about you since I left home. But then I’ve lost track of all the crowd. Well, what in the world are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to break into the writing game. And you?”
“For ten years I’ve been trying to become an artist. Occasionally I get enough to eat. I have to work for a living, as you see at present; but when I get a little ahead I go back to my art. Where do you live?”
I tell him.
“Oh, I know, garden and statuary in the court. I lived in that street myself for a time, but my landlord and I did not agree. He had ridiculous ideas on the subject of rent. My idea of rent is money you owe. He was so prejudiced that one night I lowered all my effects to a waiting friend with a voiture à bras, and since then rue Mazarin has seen little of me. But I’d like to come and see you. We’ll talk over old days.”
“Yes, I do wish you would come.”
“I will. Ah, Madame, here is your charming profile. I only regret that my clumsy scissors fail to do you justice. Yes, Madden, I’ll come. And now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a dozen people waiting. I must make my harvest while the sun shines. Good-bye, just now. Expect me soon.”
He waves us an airy farewell, and a moment after, with the same intent gaze, he is following the features of a fat Frenchwoman, who laughs immoderately at his pleasantries.
We walk home almost without speaking. Anastasia has got into the way of respecting my thoughts. To her I am Balzac, Hugo and Zola rolled into one, and labelled James Horace Madden. Who is she that should break in on the dreams of this great author? Rather let her foster them by sympathetic silence. Yet on this occasion she looks up in my face and sighs wistfully:
“What are you sinking of, darleen?”