As she stood staring at it, her pallor glazed with an unnatural blush, an inspiration came to her which sent a tide of real color into her face. A manner of redeeming herself suddenly was revealed to her. She would give the rest of the money to the most needy person she met that evening. She would walk the city till she found some one more deserving of it than she. Then she would give all she had—share her theft with some other pauper to whom two francs would mean salvation.
She felt instantly stimulated and revived by a return of self-respect. Either side of the river would be rich in case of heartbreak and hunger. Standing in the middle of the bridge, she looked from the straight line of gray houses on the Quai Voltaire to the vast façade of the Louvre. Then some whim impelled her to choose the side of the city where wealth dwells, and she walked forward toward the guichets of the old palace.
The city had on the first phase of its evening aspect of brilliantly illumined gayety. People were dining; she caught glimpses of them over the half-curtains of restaurant windows. Women in voluminous wraps were making mincing exits from the hotel doorways to waiting fiacres. There was the frou-frou of skirts, whiffs of perfumery, the shifting of many feet under the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli.
Passing the entrance of one of the largest hotels, she was arrested by a familiar voice, and a richly clad and rustling lady deflected her course from the carriage that awaited her at the curb toward the astonished artist. Celia felt a curious sensation of fatefulness when she saw in the face before her that of an old patron, long absent from Paris. The lady gave her a warm greeting; she wanted to see her to-morrow, apropos of some copies to be made. Had Celia time to make the copies? Well, then, would she come to lunch to-morrow and talk it over?
The little artist blinked in the glare of the doorway and the lady’s diamonds. She would.
And now would she go to the theatre with the lady? Only her niece was with her, and they had a box.
No—Celia could not do that. She had—er—business—business that might keep her up very late.
The carriage rolled away with the lady and the niece, and Celia turned up one of the side streets that lead to the great boulevard. So Fortune was going to smile on her once more. All the more reason to square things with her conscience. She grasped her purse tightly and looked about her as she passed up the narrow thoroughfare. Misery often lurked ashamed in corners. She knew just how and why.
A few moments more walking, with an occasional turn into cross-cuts, brought her into the spacious widening of the ways before the Gare St. Lazare. It was particularly lively inside the depot inclosure, as the boat train for Calais was soon to leave. There was an incessant rattling of carriages piled high with trunks, and a great disgorging of travelers, who ran staggering up the steps weighted with the amazing amount of hand luggage indispensable to the Continental tourist.
Certainly it did not look a promising place in which to seek distressed humanity. Celia turned away and began to walk upward toward the street which flanks the building on the left, and winds an ascending course toward Montmartre. It was badly lit, sheltered by the vast blank wall of the depot, and showed only an occasional passer-by, and the lamps of a long line of waiting fiacres.