“You are just as complimentary as of old—always the same Théophile.”
In that voice I found an air of recognition. Instantly I remembered a half-forgotten period, like a pleasant dream; a name was upon my lips, but I could not utter it; I stammered a question.
“Well, well,” she said. “They tell me I have altered, yet—why, don’t you know Mariette?”
Mariette!
Mariette! only this thought, and I fell on my knees beside her; our hands touched, and I kissed her dainty white fingers. Why was I certain in all my life never to know a like moment?
Ah! never shall I experience the same mad joy; the delight of holding in mine the thin hands of my childhood’s friend. It was that childhood I embraced; that other time, so free and pure, with its pretty welcoming air.
“Do you remember when last we met?” I asked earnestly.
She heaved a slight sigh, so like those of other days that tears rose to my eyes.
“Yes,” she murmured. “But—there, don’t speak of it. Such memories must be painful to both of us.”
“If to you, none the less to me, Mariette,” I replied, looking in her sad, sweet face.