But someone was with her,--someone whom Fontenelle
recognised at once by the classic shape of his head and bright curly
hair,--the man whom he had seen that very day on the Pincio,--Aubrey
Leigh. With a jealous tightening at his heart, Fontenelle saw that
Leigh held the soft plume of downy feathers which served Sylvie for
a fan, and that he was lightly waving it to and fro as he talked to
her in the musical, all-potent voice which had charmed thousands,
and would surely not be without its fascination for the sensitive
ears of a woman. Moving a little closer he tried to hear what was
being said,--but Leigh spoke very softly, and Sylvie answered with
equal softness, so that he could catch no distinct word. Yet the
mere tone of these two voices melted into a harmony more dulcet and
perfect than could be endured by Fontenelle with composure, and
uttering an impatient exclamation at his own folly he hastily left
his retreat, and with one parting glance up at the picture of fair
loveliness above him walked swiftly away. Returning to his hotel he
saw the letter that he had written to Sylvie lying on the table, and
he at once posted it. Then he began to prepare for his encounter
with Miraudin. He dressed quickly,--wrote a few business letters,--
and was about to lie down for a rest of an hour or so when the swift
and furious galloping of a horse's hoofs awoke the echoes of the
quiet street, and almost before he had time to realise what had
happened, his friend Ruspardi stood before him, breathless and wild
with excitement.
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