And it was characteristic of the man that he had left nothing behind
him--no papers, no testament, no clue to that other life so
different from his life in the Frauengasse that it must have lapsed
into a fleeting, intangible memory, such as the brain is sometimes
allowed to retain of a dream dreamt in this existence, or perhaps in
another. Sebastian was gone--with his secret.
Desiree, alone with hers, was left in this quiet house for a few
hours longer. Mechanically she set it in order. What would it
matter to-morrow whether it were set in order or not? Who would
come to note the last touches? She worked with that feverish haste
which is responsible for much unnecessary woman's work in this
world--the haste that owes its existence to the fear of having time
to think. Many talk for the same reason. What a quiet world, if
those who have nothing to say said nothing! But speech or work must
fail at last, and lo! the thoughts are lying in wait.
Desiree's thoughts found their opportunity when she went into the
drawing-room upstairs, where her wedding-breakfast had been set
before the guests only eight months ago. The guests--De Casimir,
the Grafin, Sebastian, Mathilde, Charles!
Desiree stood alone now in the silent room. She did not look at the
table. The guests were all gone. The dead past had buried its
dead. She went to the window and drew aside the curtain as she had
drawn it aside on her wedding-day to look down into the Frauengasse
and see Louis d'Arragon.
Pages:
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289