The abbé shook his finger doubtingly, yet gave me a half promise.
Three days only were left to me; I cast up anxious glances each morning of my stay, but there was nothing but the placard and a bit of the veil to be seen—the little shoe was gone. My last evening I passed with the abbé, and came away late. I stopped five minutes on the corridor, just outside the wicket; the moon was shining bright, and the stars were out, but the window at the top of the court was dark—all dark.
PART II.
Poor Clerie! but I have told his story, [1] so I will not tell it again. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbé, when I first came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it will not, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbé in his priest-robes, and hearing his sad tale of poor Clerie, I should forget entirely to ask about the little shoe, or the tall gentleman of the attic. Nevertheless I did, as I went out, throw a glance up to the window of the court—alas! there were more panes broken, the placard was gone, the veil was gone—there was nothing but a flimsy web which a bold spider had stretched across one of the comers. I felt sure that the last six months had brought its changes to other houses, as well as the house of Clerie.
I thought I would just step round to the conciergerie of the neighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur Very; but before I had got fairly into the court I turned directly about, and walked away—I was afraid to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the tale I had already heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge of sadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybody knows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and there are times, too—Heaven knows!—when a saddened soul shrinks, fearful as a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass, like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone!
I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very; so I walked home—one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; and another while the current of my thought would disengage itself from these hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, and sad—pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate.
I knew the abbé would tell me all next day—and so he did.
We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snug restaurant up-stairs, near the Theatre Français. We look a little cabinet to ourselves, and I ordered up a bottle of Chambertin.
The soup was gone, a nice dish of filet de veau, aux epinards, was before us, and we had drank each a couple of glasses, before I ventured to ask one word about Monsieur Very.
"Ah, mon cher," said the abbé—at the same time laying down his fork—"il est mort!"