" Down below,'-
-but I pulled myself together, and asked pardon of my Muse.
It may be that I had offended her by my fooling. Or it may be that she
had a sisterly desire to shield Mlle. Ange'lique from my mordant art.
Or it may be that she was bent on saving M. de Maupassant from a
dangerous rivalry. Anyway, she withheld from me the inspiration I had
so confidently solicited. I could not think what had led up to that
scene on the terrace. I tried hard and soberly. I turned the `chose
vue' over and over in my mind, day by day, and the fan-stump over and
over in my hand. But the `chose a` figurer'--what, oh what, was that?
Nightly I revisited the cafe', and sat there with an open mind--a mind
wide-open to catch the idea that should drop into it like a ripe
golden plum. The plum did not ripen. The mind remained wide-open for a
week or more, but nothing except that phrase about the sea rustled to
and fro in it.
A full quarter of a century has gone by. M. Joumand's death, so far
too fat was he all those years ago, may be presumed. A temper so
violent as Mlle. Ange'lique's must surely have brought its owner to
the grave, long since. But here, all unchanged, the stump of her fan
is; and once more I turn it over and over in my hand, not learning its
secret--no, nor even trying to, now.
Pages:
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30