Every word my uncle spoke went through my heart like a poniard-thrust.
Jean rolled up my sweetheart Omphale, otherwise the Marchioness Antoinette de T——, together with Hercules, or the Marquis de T——, and carried the whole thing off to the garret. I could not restrain my tears.
Next day my uncle sent me back in the B—— diligence to my respectable parents, to whom, you may feel assured, I never breathed a word of my adventure.
My uncle died; his house and furniture were sold; probably the tapestry was sold with the rest.
But a long time afterward, while foraging the shop of a bric-à-brac merchant in search of oddities, I stumbled over a great dusty roll of something covered with cobwebs.
"What is that?" I said to the Auvergnat.
"That is a rococo tapestry representing the amours of Madame Omphale and Monsieur Hercule. It is genuine Beauvais, worked in silk, and in an excellent state of preservation. Buy this from me for your study. I will not charge you dear for it, since it is you."
At the name of Omphale all my blood rushed to my heart.
"Unroll that tapestry," I said to the merchant in a hurried, gasping voice, like one in a fever.
It was indeed she! I fancied that her mouth smiled graciously at me, and that her eye lighted up on meeting mine.