With the reluctant step of one who fears a snare, he walked to the window, and, opening it, looked out into the street.
A deep tranquillity reigned without. The old houses, steeped in the milky bath of moonshine, seemed to sway gently, as though in sleep; the sable shadow of the drinking-fountain seemed to rock, as though the ancient town slumbered to the croon of some unheard lullaby.
‘Ah, how peaceful!’ Madame had arisen and was now standing by his side. Her breath, onion-flavoured from her last meal, fell on his cheek in hot puffs.
‘What a picture! And see the leaves, how they fly!’
At a sudden gust of wind, the withered foliage arose from the bare boughs like a flock of birds, and soared into the air in a mad ecstasy of flight—rising, wheeling, swooping—only to sink, feebly fluttering, to the pavement.
With a cold chill of premonition, Quality recalled his own dream of impotent flight.
‘See, the floating leaves are like revenants! Or, perhaps, the souls—ever rising in their thousands—swarming from field and trench. Whither? Whither?—Ah!’
She recoiled with a cry as a leaf, fluttering in through the window, brushed against her face, and then fell, brown and shrivelled, at her feet.
She stooped and picked it up.