"In Paris, perhaps--" she began suddenly, then stopped short and
became again silent.
But I was fast dropping into melancholy and wanted to hear her
voice, and I said:
"Well? In Paris--"
She looked at me, her eyes curiously somber, but did not speak.
I insisted:
"You were saying, Desiree, in Paris--"
She made a quick movement and laughed unpleasantly.
"Yes, my friend--but it is useless. I was thinking of you. 'Ah!
A card! Mr. Paul Lamar. Show him in, Julie. But no, let him
wait--I am not at home.' That, my friend, would be in Paris."
I stared at her.
"For Heaven's sake, Desiree, what nonsense is this?"
She disregarded my question as she continued:
"Yes, that is how it would be. Why do I talk thus? The
mountains hypnotize me. The snow, the solitude--for I am alone.
Your brother, what is he? And you, Paul, are scarcely aware of my
existence.
"I had my opportunity with you, and I laughed it away. And as
for the future--look! Do you see that waste of snow and ice,
glittering, cold, pitiless? Ha! Well, that is my grave."
I tried to believe that she was merely amusing herself, but the
glow in her eyes did not proceed from mirth.
Pages:
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83